“He said you put four of his guys in the hospital. Said it’s bad for business when old men embarrass young fighters.” Jarvis wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He suggested I fire you. Said if I didn’t, there might be problems for the company.”
“So, you’re firing me.”
“I’m sorry. Two weeks’ severance. But you need to be gone today.”
Shane drove home, his mind working through scenarios. Royce was escalating, applying pressure, testing defenses. Classic tactics. But Shane had fought insurgents who used the same playbook. And he’d learned something in the Corps: when your enemy attacks your flanks, you don’t defend. You attack his center.
Three days later, Shane sat in a dive bar called The Cage on Southside territory, nursing a beer. He’d shaved his beard to stubble and bought clothes from a thrift store. He looked like every other washed-up fighter drowning in regret and cheap beer. After his third beer, one of Royce’s recruiters, a man named Dixon, approached him.
“You look like you can handle yourself.”
“Used to,” Shane played the part. “Life. Bad knees. Bad decisions. But I need money.”
“We’ve got a fight coming up,” Dixon said after a moment. “Five grand for showing up, twenty if you win. Interested?”
“Hell yes.”
“I’ll run you by my boss,” Dixon said after snapping Shane’s photo with a burner phone. Ten minutes later, he returned. “Boss wants to meet you. Now.”
Shane followed him to a blacked-out Escalade. Inside, Royce Clark sat on a folding chair like a throne in a converted warehouse. He was fifty, built like a bull, with dead eyes that had seen too much violence.
“Larry Perkins,” Royce said, using the fake name Shane had given. “Dixon says you need money.”
“That’s right.”
“You look familiar.”
Shane’s pulse remained steady. “I’ve got one of those faces.”
“Strip,” Royce commanded. Shane removed his shirt, revealing the extra weight but also the underlying muscle. Old scars from combat marked his torso.
“Military,” Royce noted. “Marines. Long time ago.” He walked around Shane. “Your opponent is Brenton Cantrell. You might have heard of him. He’s just recovered from an injury. He’s angry. Wants to hurt someone. That someone’s going to be you.”
Shane recognized the name. One of the fighters he’d put down at the gym. This was a test. Royce suspected something. He was dangling bait.
For the next two days, Shane trained at the warehouse, carefully calibrating his performance—good enough to impress, not so dominant as to raise suspicion. But at night, he worked his real plan. Using the access he’d gained, he planted tiny cameras and audio bugs, photographed documents, and built a comprehensive picture of the Viper organization. Gabriel had connected him with Linda Kane, an FBI agent who’d been trying to build a case against Royce for three years. Shane fed her everything.
Saturday arrived. The fight was held in a converted warehouse on the docks, surrounded by three hundred people. In the cage across from Shane, Brenton Cantrell warmed up, his ear still bandaged. But he didn’t recognize Shane. The beard was gone, the context different.
The bell rang. Brenton came out aggressive. Shane moved defensively, studying his patterns. After two minutes, he’d seen enough. The next time Brenton threw a wild hook, Shane stepped inside, trapped the arm, and delivered a textbook elbow strike to the temple. Brenton’s eyes glazed. Shane swept his legs, followed him down, and applied a rear-naked choke. Seven seconds later, Brenton tapped out.
As their eyes met, recognition flashed across Brenton’s face. His eyes went wide. “You—”
Shane’s fist connected with Brenton’s jaw, cutting off the revelation. The crowd laughed, but Royce’s eyes narrowed. One of his enforcers blocked Shane’s path at the exit. “Boss wants to see you.”
In a back office, Royce slid a photograph across a desk. It was a security camera still from Titan’s Forge. “This is from my nephew’s gym,” Royce said. “Some old timer walked in and hospitalized four of my guys. This guy looks a lot like you, except he had a beard.”
The room went silent.
“My nephew Dustin is still eating through a straw because of this guy,” Royce continued. “So, here’s my problem, Larry. Or should I call you Shane Jones? Formerly Gunnery Sergeant Shane Jones. MCMAP instructor. Force Recon.”
Shane said nothing.
“You came into my operation under false pretenses. You humiliated my nephew. That requires consequences.”
“Then why am I still breathing?”
“Because I’m a businessman,” Royce smiled. “You’re a talented fighter. So, here’s the deal. You fight for me. Exclusive contract. You win, you make a million dollars, and we forget about Dustin.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Your wife Lisa works at County General. Your daughter Marcy lives on Maple Street. Accidents happen, Shane. Terrible, random accidents.”
There it was. The threat he’d been expecting. “Okay,” Shane said after a long pause. “I’ll fight for you.”
Over the following weeks, Shane became Royce’s favorite fighter, his cage record undefeated at 7-0. More importantly, he became trusted. Royce brought him into planning meetings, asked for his tactical advice. Shane used every opportunity to plant seeds of doubt, subtle manipulations that played on existing tensions between Royce and his top lieutenants. Meanwhile, Agent Kane built her case with the evidence Shane provided.
“We can take them down now,” she told Shane during a clandestine meeting. “We’ve got RICO charges.”
“Not yet,” Shane said. “Royce has cops and judges in his pocket. He’ll walk. We need to hit him when he’s completely vulnerable.”
The opportunity came two weeks later. Royce was planning his biggest fight yet, a title match between Dustin Freeman and a fearsome Russian fighter named Andre, with betting pools expected to exceed two million dollars. Every major player in the criminal underworld would attend.
Shane approached Royce with a proposition. “I want to fight Andre.”
Royce was genuinely surprised. “You serious? Andre is a killer. He’s six-foot-five, 260 pounds.”
“I can beat him.”
Royce considered it. The odds would be astronomical. If Shane won, Royce would make millions. If he lost, Royce would be rid of a potential threat. “Okay,” Royce said finally. “You fight Andre.”
Shane had one month. He trained harder than he had in fifteen years. But he also finalized his other preparations. Gabriel flew in with more equipment. Agent Kane positioned FBI tactical teams around the city. And Shane made one final call to his wife.
“Lisa, I need you to trust me. On Saturday night, take Marcy and go to your sister’s in Oregon. Don’t ask questions. Just go.”
“Shane, what are you doing?”
“Fixing things. I’ll call you when it’s over. I love you.”
He hung up before she could respond.
Saturday night arrived like judgment day. The warehouse was packed with over five hundred people. The betting pool had reached three million dollars.
Shane stood in the makeshift locker room when Dustin entered, his face healed poorly, his eyes holding a manic gleam. “I know what you’re doing,” Dustin said. “You think you’re clever, but you’re going to die tonight. Andre is going to kill you, and I’m going to watch.”
“Your uncle’s going to prison tonight,” Shane said calmly. “You are, too. And the woman you put in the hospital is never going to see you again.”
Dustin’s fist came fast, but Shane was faster. He caught the wrist, twisted, and slammed Dustin face-first into a locker. “You’re going to sit there and stay quiet. Move again, and I’ll break your arm.”
In the arena, Royce stood in the cage. “Ladies and gentlemen, criminals and degenerates, welcome to the fight of the century!”
Andre, the Siberian Bear, climbed into the cage—massive, scarred, a killer who enjoyed his work. Shane entered to mixed reactions. The bell rang. Andre charged. Shane evaded, circled, making Andre chase him. He wasn’t trying to win. Not yet. He was waiting for his signal.
It came three minutes into the first round. The warehouse lights flickered once, twice, then steadied. Gabriel’s signal.
Shane changed tactics. He stopped evading and started attacking. Low kicks, body shots, liver punches. The Russian’s mass was his weakness; Shane was faster, more technical. Andre tried to clinch, but Shane anticipated it, dropped levels, and executed a perfect double-leg takedown. On the ground, Shane was in his element. He moved to mount and rained down elbows. The crowd was screaming. Andre tried to roll, but Shane transitioned to back control, sinking in a rear-naked choke. Ten seconds later, Andre went limp.
Shane released the choke and stood, raising his hands. But he wasn’t looking at the crowd. He was looking at the exits, where FBI agents in tactical gear were pouring in.
“Federal agents! Nobody move!”
The warehouse erupted into chaos. Criminals ran for exits only to find them blocked. In the cage, Shane watched Royce’s face transform from shock to fury to betrayal.
“You!” Royce screamed, pushing through the crowd toward the cage. “You did this!”
Royce reached the cage, climbing in with murder in his eyes, pulling a knife from his waistband. He lunged. Shane’s disarm was reflexive, practiced ten thousand times. He trapped Royce’s wrist, twisted, and the knife clattered to the canvas.
Then Shane went to work. Fifteen years of teaching Marines how to end threats efficiently. He mounted Royce and delivered controlled, punishing strikes. “This is for my daughter.” A strike to the ribs. “This is for every woman you terrorized.” Another to the solar plexus. “This is for every life you ruined.” A final strike to the jaw. Royce went limp.
Shane stood as FBI agents swarmed the cage. “Shane Jones, hands up!” Agent Kane’s voice rang out. He complied. She cuffed him, deliberately loose, and whispered, “Play along. We discussed this.”
Shane was led out through the chaos, past arrested gang members, past terrified gamblers, past Dustin Freeman being dragged away in cuffs. Outside, news cameras had arrived. In the back of an FBI van, Agent Kane uncuffed him. “We got everyone,” she said. “Royce, his lieutenants, Dustin, all the major players. Plus fifty-seven criminals with outstanding warrants, twelve dirty cops, and three judges.”
“And my family?”
“Safe. We’ve had them in protective custody since you made the call.”
Shane nodded, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming him. It was over.
The trial took eight months. The evidence Shane had gathered was overwhelming. Royce Clark received forty years in federal prison. His top lieutenants got twenty-five. Dustin Freeman, facing assault charges for Marcy plus his participation in the illegal fighting ring, got fifteen. The Southside Vipers collapsed.
Shane Jones returned home. The furniture company rehired him. Marcy was in therapy, working through the trauma, getting stronger every day.
One evening, three months after the trial, Shane sat on his porch with Lisa. “Do you regret it?” she asked.
He thought of Marcy’s smile at their last Sunday dinner, genuinely happy for the first time in a year. He thought of the other victims who’d testified at trial, finding their voices. He thought of the city, slightly safer because one criminal empire had fallen. “Yeah,” Shane said. “It was worth it.”
Two years later, Shane held his infant grandson, Marcy’s son. The boy would grow up in a world slightly safer because his grandfather had made difficult choices. He’d never know about the violence, the danger, the calculated revenge. But someday, if that boy needed protection, he’d have a grandfather who knew how to fight back.
For now, though, Shane was content to simply hold his grandson and feel the warmth of family around him. The past was behind them, the future uncertain but hopeful. Shane Jones had been a Marine, an instructor, a warrior, and an avenger. Now, finally, he was just a man at peace. And that was the greatest victory of all.
