“So,” Vic said, circling to his left. “What do you want to know, Sheriff?” His hands were up, his movement easy, but his eyes were sharp—reading Jack the way fighters read opponents, looking for tells, for weaknesses, for the small betrayals of body language that telegraphed intent.
Jack mirrored his movement, circling in the opposite direction, keeping the distance between them constant. His hands were up in a guard that looked natural—not textbook, exactly, but practiced. Comfortable. Like his body remembered the position even if years had passed since the last time he’d used it.
“Tell me about the Saturday night fights, Vic.”
Vic’s expression didn’t change. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He flicked a jab—fast, testing. Jack slipped it, moving his head just enough to let the glove whisper past his ear. No panic, no overreaction. Clean, economical movement.
“We found Dre’s notebook,” Jack said, still circling. “Page after page of initials, dollar amounts, win-loss records. Your initials are at the top of every page, Vic. V.C. Twenty percent.”
Something tightened in Vic’s face, but his movement didn’t falter. He threw another jab, then feinted with the right and let that left hand go—the power shot T-Bone had warned about. It was fast. Faster than a sixty-year-old man had any right to be.
But Jack was already moving. He slipped the left cross the same way he’d slipped the jab—minimal movement, maximum efficiency—and came back with a jab of his own that snapped Vic’s head to the side.
It wasn’t hard. Barely more than a tap. But it was clean and precise, and the message was clear.
I know what I’m doing in here.
A murmur went through the gathered fighters. Vic’s eyes narrowed.
“Not bad,” Vic said, resetting his guard. The cockiness was still there, but something else had crept in underneath it—a wariness, a recalculation. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Here and there.” Jack circled, his jab finding range again—a flicking, measuring tool that kept Vic honest. “Tell me about the money, Vic. Thirty thousand in cash hidden in Dre’s apartment. Where’d it come from?”
“Kid worked construction.” Vic feinted low, tried to close the distance. Jack stepped back and to the right, keeping him at the end of his reach. “Maybe he was a good saver.”
“Nobody saves thirty grand in twenties and fifties behind a false wall in their closet.” Jack popped the jab again—once, twice, the second one catching Vic on the forehead, snapping his head back a few inches. “That’s fight money. Your fights.”
Vic’s patience cracked. He surged forward with a combination—jab, cross, hook—a flurry of motion that had probably overwhelmed younger, less experienced men. It was technically sound, well timed, the punches flowing from one to the next with the practiced rhythm of decades in the ring.
Jack took the jab on his guard, slipped the cross, and caught the hook on his forearm. Then he countered—a right hand that came from his hip, smooth and fast, and found a home just below Vic’s ribs.
The sound was solid. Meaty. Vic grunted, his body folding slightly around the impact, and for the first time I saw something behind his eyes that wasn’t confidence.
Surprise. And maybe a little bit of pain.
“Who’s above you, Vic?” Jack pressed forward now, using his reach, his jab working like a piston—not trying to hurt, just controlling. Establishing authority. “Who runs the operation?”
Vic backed up, his feet shuffling on the canvas, buying time while his ribs complained. He was breathing harder now—T-Bone had been right about the cardio. The pace Jack was setting was taking its toll.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vic repeated, but the words had lost their conviction. They sounded rehearsed now. A line he’d been told to deliver, not one he believed.
“You knew about the Klonopin,” Jack said, his voice steady, conversational—a man discussing the weather, not throwing punches at a suspect. “The seizures. His mother said nobody knew. Said Dre kept it secret from everyone because it made him feel weak.” He popped the jab again. “But you knew, Vic. Which means Dre trusted you with the thing he was most ashamed of. And now he’s dead.”
He threw the left again—the power shot, loaded up from the shoulder—but this time it was born of frustration, not strategy. Sloppy. Telegraphed. Jack saw it coming from a mile away, slipped inside the arc of the punch, and let a short right hook go to the body that landed with a sound like a hammer hitting a side of beef.
Vic sagged against the ropes, his guard dropping, his mouth open as he fought for air. The crowd had gone absolutely silent. Not a whisper, not a shuffle, not a single sound except for the rasp of Vic’s breathing and the distant hum of the fluorescent lights.
Jack stepped back, giving him space. Not pressing the advantage. Not humiliating him any further than necessary. Because this wasn’t about winning a fight. This was about asking questions.
“Dre kept records,” Jack said calmly. “Names, dates, dollar amounts. Everything. He documented it all—your cut, the other fighters’ shares, the schedule. He hid it somewhere you’d never think to look, and now we have it.” He paused. “Someone killed that young man, Vic. Tortured him for days and put a bullet in the back of his head. And the trail leads right back to this gym.”
Vic straightened slowly, one gloved hand pressed against his ribs where Jack’s body shot had landed. The cockiness was gone. The swagger, the smirk, the untouchable attitude of someone who believed his connections would insulate him from consequences—all of it had been punched out of him, replaced by something rawer and less certain.
He stared at Jack for a long moment. The gym waited, holding its collective breath.
“You think I killed Dre?” His voice was hoarse, stripped of its earlier bravado.
