Chapter 2
I dropped the knife.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Both hands up.
“Don’t move!” one officer shouted.
“I’m not moving.”
My voice sounded strange.
Flat.
Too calm for a man standing in a room full of guns, blood, and money.
Vincent shouted over me.
“He flipped the table! He threatened everyone! Check him!”
I looked at the nearest officer.
“His phone,” I said.
“What?”
“On the floor. Under the cash. Read the screen before he locks it.”
Vincent lunged.
Not at me.
At the phone.
That was all the proof the room needed.
Two officers slammed him against the betting table before his fingers touched it.
He cursed.
Spat.
Screamed about lawyers.
Another officer picked up the phone with gloves.
His eyes moved across the screen.
His face changed.
He looked at Vincent.
Then at me.
“Who’s Chief?”
The whole club seemed to stop breathing.
Vincent laughed too fast.
“That’s a joke. Just some guy.”
The officer turned the screen toward a detective entering behind him.
Detective Morales.
I knew his name because every fighter in Vegas knew which cops took envelopes and which ones did not.
Morales had a reputation.
He did not smile.
He did not blink much.
And he hated dirty uniforms more than dirty criminals.
He read the text once.
Then again.
“Everyone’s phones on the floor,” he said. “Now.”
The room erupted.
People protested.
Security tried to vanish toward side doors.
Police blocked them all.
I stood still, hands up, blood drying on my knuckles.
A younger officer approached me.
“Name?”
“Caleb Reed.”
“You fight tonight?”
“Yes.”
“You armed when you came in?”
“No.”
“Knife yours?”
“No. One of Vincent’s men pulled it backstage.”
Vincent laughed.
“He’s lying!”
I looked at Morales.
“There are cameras back there.”
Vincent’s face twitched.
Just a flicker.
But Morales saw it.
“Back where?”
“Locker room hallway,” I said. “Above the exit sign.”
Vincent snapped, “Those cameras don’t record.”
I almost smiled.
“How convenient.”
Morales pointed at two officers.
“Find the system.”
They moved fast.
The younger officer cuffed me anyway.
I did not fight him.
Cold metal closed around my wrists.
My ribs screamed as he pulled my arms back.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Detained.”
“Good,” I said.
He frowned.
“Good?”
“If I’m detained, you have to write down what I say.”
His eyes shifted.
Maybe surprised.
Maybe annoyed.
I kept talking.
“Vincent owes me five thousand dollars from the main event. When I asked for it, he sent three men into the locker room. One had a knife. I defended myself. Then I came out and flipped the table because he was counting money he refused to pay.”
The officer wrote.
Vincent glared at me like he wanted to finish what his men had started.
Then Morales returned.
In his hand was a small black hard drive.
“Security system was active,” he said. “Someone tried to unplug it when we entered.”
His eyes moved to Vincent’s manager, Paulie, who was sweating through his shirt.
Paulie looked at Vincent.
Vincent did not look back.
That was when I understood something important.
Men like Vincent had friends.
But only until the room filled with police.
Morales walked toward me.
“You have family, Caleb?”
“My sister.”
“Anyone who can pick you up if this clears?”
I shook my head.
“Mia’s at work. Don’t call her unless you have to.”
“How old?”
“Eighteen.”
He studied me.
“You fought for tuition money?”
I said nothing.
His face softened only a fraction.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His expression went very still.
When he hung up, he looked across the room at Vincent.
“The chief is on his way.”
Vincent smiled.
Relief spread across his face like poison.
I looked at the phone again.
The text.
Raid in 10.
Blame the new kid.
May you like
The chief was not coming to stop Vincent.
He was coming to protect him.
