Chapter 8 #2
“I fight on the undercard,” he said finally, so quietly I had to lean in to hear him. “The Saturday night bouts—they’re underground. No sanctioning, no medicals, no rules except the ones they decide on the night. The money’s good. Better than anything else I can get with my skill set and a DD-214.”
“Where do they hold them?”
“Different places. They rotate through the old tunnels under the docks. Yeah, there’s a whole network down there.
Been down there since before the Civil War, from what Vic says.
Old as the docks themselves. They’ve got sections set up with rings, lighting, the works.
Never the same section twice in a row—keeps people from getting too comfortable, makes it harder for anyone to find you if they’re looking.
” He paused. “But the organization runs through here. Vic sets up the cards, matches the fighters, handles the money. There’s a guy above him—I’ve never met him, but Vic takes orders from someone.
Big money. The kind of money that buys silence. ”
“Names,” Jack said. “Who else fights?”
“Do you know what you’re asking me?” T-Bone asked.
“I know that sometimes you have to do the courageous thing. The right thing. Even when there’s risk involved. We can protect you if you’re worried about your safety.”
T-Bone hesitated again. Then he seemed to make a decision, and his shoulders squared like a man stepping into the ring.
“I don’t need no protection,” he said. “I’ve got my fist. Marco Reyes is another one of the fighters.
Heavyweight, been doing this for years. Quiet guy, keeps to himself.
He’s over there.” He nodded toward a stocky Hispanic man working the heavy bag with a rhythm that spoke of years of practice.
“And Darnell Harris. He’s new, been fighting for maybe six months. He’s in the locker room.”
“That’s very helpful,” Jack said.
“Come on,” T-Bone said. “I’ll introduce you. Don’t mention what I told you. We’ll all be in trouble.”
He led us over to Marco first. Up close, Marco Reyes was built like a fireplace—short, broad, and solid, with hands that looked like they’d been poured from concrete.
He had a thick black mustache and deep-set brown eyes that assessed us with quiet intelligence.
When T-Bone explained who we were and what we were asking about, Marco pulled his gloves off and wiped his face with a towel.
“Dre was good people,” Marco said, his accent faint—the kind that came from growing up bilingual and choosing English for most conversations.
“Best fighter I ever saw walk through those doors. Fast hands, good instincts. And clean, you know? Didn’t trash talk, didn’t try to hurt you worse than necessary.
Some of these guys—” He shrugged. “They like the pain part. Dre just liked the competition.”
“When did you last see him?” Jack asked.
“Week ago. We trained together Wednesdays.” Marco folded the towel with deliberate care. “He was in a good mood. Said he had something big coming up. I figured it was a fight—Vic had been talking about a special event, high stakes, big crowd.”
“Did Dre seem worried about anything?”
Marco was quiet for a beat too long. “He was careful,” he said finally. “More careful than usual. Like he was watching his back.” He met Jack’s eyes directly. “In this business, that usually means somebody gave you a reason to.”
Darnell Harris was younger—maybe twenty-two—with a raw-boned physique that suggested he was still growing into his body. He came out of the locker room toweling off his hair, and when T-Bone waved him over, he approached with the nervous energy of a kid called to the principal’s office.
“I only knew Dre a few months,” Darnell said, his voice pitched low.
“But he looked out for me. When I started fighting, some of the older guys tried to mess with the new kid, you know? Dre shut that down fast. Said everybody deserved a fair shake.” He swallowed hard.
“He told me to keep a record of everything. Said if things ever went south, paper was the only thing that kept you honest.”
He’d been teaching the younger fighters to protect themselves the same way he protected himself. Building a paper trail that could be used as leverage—or as evidence.
“Did he tell you to keep records of anything specific?” I asked.
“The fights. The money. Who got paid, how much, what percentage went to Vic.” Darnell’s eyes darted toward the ring where Vic was still training. “He said the numbers were our insurance policy. That as long as we had proof, nobody could screw us over without consequences.”
“Thanks for your help,” Jack said. “If you think of anything else—”
“Sheriff.”
The voice cut across the gym floor like a blade.
We turned. Vic Caruso was leaning against the ropes of the far ring, having finished his training session.
The fighter he’d been working with had stepped out and was unwrapping his gloves near the watercooler, leaving Vic alone in the elevated square of canvas, his forearms draped over the top rope with a casualness that was entirely calculated.
He’d been watching us. Probably from the moment we’d walked in.
“You want to ask me more questions?” Vic called out, loud enough for every man in the gym to hear. His voice carried that mix of amusement and challenge that belonged to men who were used to being the biggest personality in any room. “I told you everything this morning.”
“We have some follow-up questions,” Jack said.
“Then come up here and ask them.” Vic grinned—wide and wolfish, the kind of grin that was more threat than smile. He slapped the canvas with both hands. “I got a session open. You look like you could use some cardio, Sheriff.”
The gym went quiet. Not all at once—it wasn’t like someone had thrown a switch.
But one by one, the heavy bags stopped swinging, the speed bags stopped chattering, the jump ropes stopped slapping the floor.
Men who’d been focused on their own workouts turned to watch, sensing the shift in atmosphere the way animals sensed a coming storm.
Jack’s expression didn’t change. Not outwardly.
But I knew him well enough to see what was happening behind those dark eyes—the rapid calculation, the tactical assessment.
Vic was trying to put him on uneven footing, literally and figuratively.
Make him fight on Vic’s terms, in Vic’s house, surrounded by Vic’s people.
It was a power play. A move a man made when he felt untouchable.
“You’re saying you’ll answer my questions if I get in the ring?” Jack asked.
“I’m saying I train while I talk.” Vic shrugged, all innocence, but the grin didn’t waver.
“I’m a busy man. You want my time, you work for it.
Besides—” He looked Jack up and down with the appraising eye of a man who’d spent his whole life sizing up fighters.
“Big guy like you, I bet you’ve thrown a punch or two. Show me what you’ve got.”
Jack studied him for three heartbeats. I could practically hear the gears turning—the lawman weighing the options against the man who’d just been told to prove himself.
He unclipped his duty belt—the heavy nylon rig that held his service weapon, cuffs, radio, and a dozen other tools of the trade—and handed it to me. The badge came next, and he placed it carefully in the palm of my hand. I closed my fingers around the cool metal, feeling the weight of it.
“Hold those for me,” he said quietly.
Then he grabbed the back collar of his polo and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.
I’d seen Jack shirtless roughly ten thousand times.
It never got old. A wall of solid muscle that had been built over a lifetime of serious physical training—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, arms roped with the kind of definition that came from functional strength, not vanity reps.
The three bullet scars on his right side caught the fluorescent light—puckered and pale against his tanned skin, souvenirs from the SWAT raid that had nearly killed him a decade ago.
Every man in the gym was watching now. A few of them had gone very still, their eyes moving from Jack’s frame to Vic and back again, doing their own calculations.
Jack toed off his boots, then peeled off his socks and tucked them inside. He stood on the concrete floor barefoot, rolling his shoulders once—loose and easy, like a man did when his body remembered something his mind hadn’t done in a while.
“Somebody want to lend me some gloves?” he asked.
Vic’s grin faltered. Just a fraction, just for a second—but I caught it. He’d expected Jack to back down. He hadn’t expected Jack to take off his shirt.
“T-Bone.” Vic pointed. “Get the man some gloves.”
T-Bone hesitated, looking at Jack with an expression that mixed concern with something that might have been admiration. Then he moved to the rack along the wall and came back with a pair of sixteen-ounce training gloves—red, well worn, the leather supple from years of use.
“Come here,” T-Bone said to Jack, keeping his voice low as he held up the first glove. “I’ll lace you up.”
Jack extended his right hand, and T-Bone slid the glove on, working the laces with practiced fingers. While he worked, he talked—quiet enough that only Jack and I could hear, his lips barely moving.
“Vic’s a southpaw,” he murmured, pulling the lace tight.
“Leads with his right, throws the cross with his left. That left hand is where his power is—don’t let it get clean to your jaw.
” He moved to the second glove. “He drops his right when he loads up the left. You can slip it and come over the top, but he recovers fast for an old man, so don’t get lazy about it. ”
“What about body work?” Jack asked.
T-Bone’s eyebrows rose a fraction—the subtle recognition of someone who spoke the language. “He’ll go to the body if you let him get inside. Likes the liver shot. Keep your elbows tight and make him work at distance. Your reach is longer—use it.”
“His cardio?”