Chapter 11 - The Prodigal’s Tears
"TREVOR!"
Marlene’s scream pierced the warehouse like a siren.
The entire arena froze. The bass music cut out as our tactical team fanned across the catwalks, their weapon-mounted strobes washing over the spectators in disorienting pulses of blue and white light.
Trevor spun around, his face flushed red from whiskey, his eyes wild and unhinged. When he saw Marlene and me walking down the center aisle, flanked by armed operators, his jaw dropped in sheer disbelief.
"What the hell is this?" Trevor snarled, stepping toward the cage door. "This is private property! David, you can't touch me here! I have full athletic authority!"
I didn't answer him with words.
I climbed the three wooden steps to the cage platform, grabbed the steel latch, and ripped the cage door open. The eighteen-year-old fighter inside took one look at my face and the three laser dots dancing across his chest and immediately backed away, raising his bloody hands in surrender.
Brock collapsed face-first onto the blood-spattered canvas, sobbing violently.
"Mom..." the boy choked out, his voice a broken whimper as he clawed at the mat with his good hand. "Mom... please... it hurts... my shoulder is gone..."
Marlene threw herself onto the canvas, sliding on her knees into the dirt and blood, wrapping her entire body around her broken son. "I’m here, baby! I’m here! Mama is here! Nobody is ever touching you again!"
Trevor charged onto the platform, reaching for Marlene’s hair. "Get off him, you stupid bitch! He has one round left! I’ve got fifty thousand on this bout!"
He never laid a finger on her.
I stepped across the canvas, caught Trevor by the throat with my left hand, and drove him backward into the chain-link fence with enough force to rattle the steel rafters overhead.
Trevor gasped, his eyes bulging as my fingers sank into his windpipe. The smell of cheap bourbon and sweat radiated off him.
"You broke my daughter's hand," I whispered, my voice so low and lethal that Trevor’s drunken rage vanished into pure, unadulterated terror. "You threatened my family. You sold your own blood to pay off a loan shark. And you thought I wouldn't cross state lines to tear your world apart?"
"David..." Trevor gasped, his hands clawing uselessly at my wrist. "David, please... Vance made me... Vance will kill me..."
"Vance can't save you from a fifteen-year sentence for aggravated child abuse and human trafficking," I said, shoving him down onto the canvas at his weeping son’s feet. "Look at him, Trevor. That’s your legacy. Broken, bleeding, and terrified of you."
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Brock looked up through his swollen eyes, his gaze shifting from his sobbing mother to me.
"Uncle David..." Brock wept, his body convulsing in shock as the paramedics Marcus had hired rushed into the cage with a neck brace and a stretcher. "I’m sorry... I’m so sorry about Wren... I’m so sorry..."
