Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The drive out felt shorter this time.
The second I pulled off the county road and onto the gravel lane, my gut started muttering that this was a bad idea.
The GPS had cut out five minutes back. The trees were thick, branches arching overhead like they were conspiring to keep secrets.
I followed the directions Maurice had texted—mile marker, rusted gate with no sign, “don’t miss it, Post”—until the beams of my headlights hit old brick and broken glass.
The distillery.
Or what used to be one.
The main building loomed out of the dark—long, low, brick scarred by decades, windows bricked in or busted out, metal piping that didn’t go anywhere anymore.
An ancient smokestack stabbed at the sky, black against the stars.
It looked like a place you’d dare each other to break into as teenagers, not somewhere grown adults with functioning prefrontal cortices voluntarily drove to.
But there were cars.
Not the beat-up pickups from the old livestock barn.
Not a handful of sedans. The gravel lot was lined with shine—twenty, maybe more, high-end rides glinting under the makeshift floodlights someone had set up.
Escalades, a couple of G-wagons, low-slung sports cars whose names I didn’t know but whose price tags I could guess.
And their drivers.
Men in dark jackets stood near their vehicles, silhouettes sharp and watchful. Some had the posture that says concealed carry without needing to flash anything. This wasn’t a bunch of locals who’d wandered out for a thrill. This was money, and the people who protected it.
I eased my truck into a spot at the far edge, killed the engine, and sat there for a second with my hands on the wheel.
Too late to back out now.
I grabbed my gym bag from the passenger seat and stepped out into the cool night. The air smelled like wet leaves, old brick, and faintly—if I let myself imagine hard enough—ghosts of mash and alcohol seeping out of the building’s bones.
The entrance wasn’t the crumbling front door. Someone had rigged a side access with a newer steel door, the paint clean, hinges oiled. A single industrial floodlight beamed down over it, harsh and white.
And hanging above that, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor, was a chandelier.
Not an old one, either. This was modern—big, gaudy, all chrome and crystal drops that threw little splinters of light over the brick. It looked like it had been ripped from some rich person’s foyer and bolted here just to prove it could be.
“Subtle,” I muttered.
A guy in black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt stood by the door, scrolling on his phone. He barely glanced up as I approached.
“Post?” he asked, voice bored.
“Yeah.”
He tapped something on his screen, then opened the door with his shoulder. “You’re up third. Don’t wander.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, and stepped inside.
The contrast sucker-punched me.
Outside: abandoned distillery, rust, rot. Inside? Money.
The old concrete floor had been scrubbed clean and polished, the cracks still there but gleaming under the light. The main distilling hall had been gutted—no more tanks, no more pipes—with a massive open space carved out. In the center of it stood the cage.
It wasn’t a professional MMA cage—not the nice kind you saw on TV. This was welded chain-link and steel, eight sides, bolted straight into the concrete. No padding on the posts. No soft edges. Bright portable lights on stands surrounded it, aimed down so hard it was like a miniature sun.
Nothing in that circle was going to be missed. Not a drop of sweat, not a flinch, not a single hit. And most importantly, not one drop of blood.
Around it, the rest of the distillery had been transformed into something between a private club and a nightmare.
Pop-up bars lined one wall—folding tables, sure, but covered in black linen and loaded with top-shelf bottles.
Whiskey in heavy decanters, vodka that came in frosted glass, tequila with hand-painted labels.
Crystal tumblers and flutes were stacked beside metal buckets of ice.
When I squinted, I saw champagne—not the cheap stuff, either.
Names I recognized from bachelor parties I’d never be able to afford.
No beer kegs. No red Solo cups. This wasn’t that crowd.
This crowd… yeah. They were different.
There were some guys in T-shirts and boots, looking like they’d wandered in from a job site, but they were outnumbered by men in tailored button-downs and slacks, watches that cost more than my truck.
Women threaded through them—heels, dresses, glittering jewelry, hair done like they’d stepped out of some Nashville gala.
They weren’t arm candy. Not exactly. More like predators in heels. Their eyes lit up when they looked at the cage, the way some people looked at prime rib or diamonds.
And everywhere, money.
A guy beside me flipped open a thick wallet and peeled off bills like they were napkins, shoving them into another man’s hand as they argued about odds. On the other side, somebody held up a phone, screen glowing bright with some crypto app, while his friend rattled off numbers.
No chips. No house-branded tokens. Just physical cash and digital ghosts changing hands faster than I could track.
My skin crawled.
“You’re early.”
Maurice’s voice sounded at my shoulder. I turned to see him in a blazer this time, pressed jeans, boots polished, a gold ring flashing on his right hand. He blended just enough to be one of the crowd, but his eyes were always moving, always tracking.
“Traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be,” I said. “Nice chandelier.”
His grin flashed sharp. “Owner likes to dress things up,” he said. “You know how it is. Old bones, new blood.”
Old bones, I thought, glancing at the exposed brick. New crime.
He clapped a hand on my back, not quite on the ribs he knew were tender, but close enough to make a point. “Come on,” he said. “Let me show you where you’ll be, and then we’ll get the show started. All the other fighters were early too.”
We skirted the edge of the crowd, staying in the dimmer halo just outside the intense ring lights. A couple of heads turned, calculating and curious, but no one approached. Yet.
Maurice led me to a side corridor that had probably once been a bottling line.
The old metal railings were still bolted to the floor, leading to nowhere.
Now, the long hallway served as a staging area: a couple of folding chairs, a water cooler with a stack of paper cups, two plastic bins of tape and borrowed gloves.
Not that we’d need them. This time we were going bare knuckle.
No lockers. No showers. No coaches.
Just fighters.
I saw Tyler sitting on one of the chairs, elbows on his knees, his leg bouncing up and down like he had ants in his jockstrap.
Dammit!
Same kid as before—too-thin face, buzzed brown hair, eyes that had seen too much way too young, with a baby on the way.
Fuck!
He looked up when I stepped into the spill of light.
“Hey,” I said.
“Sir,” he said automatically, then grimaced. “Sorry. Habit.”
I huffed. “You know that makes me feel old, right?”
He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.
Maurice clapped his shoulder. “Post here was impressed last time,” he said. “Figured we’d give you another shot.”
My jaw clenched. Impressed wasn’t the word I would have used.
“You ready?” Maurice asked him.
Tyler swallowed, nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I—yeah. I’m ready.”
He wasn’t. Not physically, not neurologically, not anything. The bruise on his cheekbone was fading yellow now, but there was a haunted stiffness in the way he moved that set every EMT alarm bell in my head.
“Who’s he got?” I asked.
Maurice’s smile thinned. “Local boy,” he said. “Been doing some desert work overseas. Good matchup. You’ll see.”
He checked his watch, then jerked his chin toward the main hall. “Show’s starting. Sit tight, Post. You’re on deck after the kid and one more.”
He disappeared, sliding back into the crowd as if he’d never been with us at all.
Tyler exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath since he got here.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he lied. “My wife texted before I came in.” He fumbled with his phone, then shoved it into his gym bag. “She’s got an ultrasound in the morning. I told her I’d make it. Just… gotta get through this first.”
Something twisted low in my gut.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
He blinked. “Em,” he said. “Emily. She hates it when I call her that, but I do it anyway.”
“Then you make sure you get there,” I said. “Don’t give her a reason to be pissed.”
He huffed a little laugh. “Yes, sir.”
I didn’t correct him.
A few minutes later, one of the door guys bellowed down the hall. “Tyler! You’re up.”
Tyler blew out another breath, and stood up. I had a real bad feeling about this.
“Guard up,” I said. “Breathe. Don’t let adrenaline make you stupid. You’re not here to prove you’re the toughest guy in the room. You’re here to get paid and walk out.”
He nodded jerkily, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Walk out,” he repeated.
“For your wife. For your baby.”
I watched him disappear toward the cage without looking back.
From my spot in the shadow of the bottling corridor, I could see the whole floor.
Maurice climbed a set of metal stairs bolted to the outside of the cage and stepped inside with the kind of swagger you only got from believing your own bullshit. Someone handed him a microphone. The feedback whined once, then cut.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, voice echoing off crumbling brick and decaying rafters. “Welcome.”
The crowd roared back—cheers, whistles, the slap of hands on railings.
“Tonight,” Maurice continued, “we’ve got three contests for your entertainment. Three tests of heart, skill, and will. We’ll build it up slow… and then end with something truly special.”
His eyes cut my way briefly. He winked.
Great. Just fucking great.