Chapter 14 - THE DOWNTOWN CLUB
Fifteen miles away, across the county line, the neon sign of The Iron Vault buzzed furiously against the damp brick wall of an industrial alleyway. Rain had begun to fall, slicking the cobblestone streets of downtown with greasy black reflections. The Iron Vault was an underground combat club and late-night venue run by Victor Vance’s estranged younger brother, Ray.
Unlike Master Vance, who maintained an honorable martial arts academy for the community, Ray Vance operated on the fringe of the law. His gym catered to illegal street fights, debt collectors, nightclub bouncers, and organized crime enforcers who needed a private place to train without state athletic commission oversight.
Inside the back office of The Iron Vault, the air was thick with the smell of stale cigars, leather conditioning oil, and rubbing alcohol.
Marcus sat on an ice chest in the corner, a bag of crushed ice pressed firmly against his right jaw. His eye was swollen shut, and his thick neck was stiff. Beside him stood his training partner, a heavily tattooed light-heavyweight named Jackson.
Behind a heavy mahogany desk sat Ray Vance.
Ray was fifty-five, sharp-featured, with slicked-back hair and a custom-tailored suit that barely concealed a thick shoulder holster. He was smoking a thin cigar, watching Marcus with an expression of cold amusement.
"Let me get this straight," Ray said, leaning forward and tapping the ash off his cigar into a crystal tray. "You, a professional fighter with eighteen hundred hours of cage time, went into my brother’s little suburban dojo to recruit some new blood... and a guy in a faded jacket embarrassed you in front of a dozen suburban moms?"
Marcus winced as he shifted the ice bag. "It wasn't like that, Ray. The guy... he didn't move like a fighter. He didn't even drop into a guard."
"Then what did he do?" Ray snapped.
"I tried to shoot for a double-leg," Marcus muttered, his voice laced with humiliation. "Before my shoulder even made contact with his hip, he tapped my collarbone. It felt like an electric shock. My whole right side went numb. Then he stepped off my line, grabbed my wrist lever, and drove me into the mat using my own momentum. I couldn't move. I couldn't even breathe."
Jackson stepped forward, holding up a smartphone. "I got three seconds of it on the security mirror feed before Master Vance made us turn off our phones, Ray. Look at his footwork."
Ray snatched the phone, squinting at the small screen.
The video was graining and dark, but the motion was indisputable. In the clip, Marcus charged forward with explosive speed. The stranger in the faded canvas jacket didn't retreat. He shifted his rear heel three inches to the left, absorbed the force with an unyielding core, and executed a subtle wrist-lock redirection that sent the two-hundred-pound fighter crashing face-first into the canvas.
Ray froze. He replayed the three-second clip three times, his cigar lingering inches from his lips.
"Ray?" Jackson asked. "Who is that guy? You want us to take three guys from the alley and find out where he lives?"
May you like
Ray slowly set the phone down on the desk. The amusement had completely vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating fear.
"If you take three guys from the alley to go after that man," Ray said slowly, "I’ll be paying for four coffins by sunrise."
