Chapter 4 - Ghosts of the Octagon
Forty miles away, in a glass-walled executive office overlooking downtown Boston, a silver-haired man in a bespoke three-piece suit was standing in front of a seventy-inch television screen.
His name was Victor Sterling.
He was the founder and majority owner of Apex Combat Management, the premier talent agency in professional combat sports. On his desk lay three phones, all ringing simultaneously.
On the screen, the video of Grant dropping Rhett Dugan played in a continuous loop.
Standing near the leather sofa was Rhett Dugan himself. His right arm was immobilised in a black shoulder sling. His face was flushed with a mixture of embarrassment, fury, and heavy painkillers.
"Play it again," Sterling commanded without looking back.
The assistant sitting at the console hit rewind.
"Stop," Sterling said. "Frame thirty-four. Zoom in on the foot placement."
The image froze. It captured the exact millisecond Grant’s back heel pivoted, pulling Rhett’s posture off-balance while his forearm barred Rhett’s chest.
"Look at that," Sterling whispered, a cold, terrible smile spreading across his face. "No windup. Perfect distribution of weight. He didn't even drop his center of gravity until the fulcrum was locked."
"He got lucky, Victor!" Rhett spat, taking a step toward the desk. "I was looking at the kid! I didn't think the old bastard was going to jump me from the side!"
Sterling turned around slowly. His eyes were cold, calculating, and devoid of sympathy.
"He didn't jump you from the side, Rhett. He was standing directly in front of you. You had a hand on his jacket. You had fifty pounds on him. And he laid you out in front of three thousand people like a folding lawn chair."
"I want a rematch," Rhett growled, his knuckles white around his good hand. "Put him in a ring. Give me eight weeks. I'll break his neck."
"A rematch?" Sterling laughed—a dry, humorless sound. "Rhett, you idiot. Do you have any idea who that 'old bastard' is?"
Rhett blinked, caught off guard. "He’s a handyman from some redneck town outside the county line."
Sterling walked over to his mahogany bookshelf, pulled out a thick, leather-bound commemorative program from 2017, and tossed it onto the glass coffee table.
On the cover was a photo of a younger, leaner Grant Mercer. His jaw was tight, his knuckles taped, and three championship belts were draped over his shoulders. Above his head, bold red letters read: DAMIAN "THE WARDEN" VANCE – UNDEFEATED.
Rhett stared at the cover, the blood draining completely from his face.
"Vance?" Rhett muttered, his voice cracking. "That's... that's Damian Vance? He died. People said he went to Japan or got locked up in federal prison."
"He didn't die," Sterling said quietly. "He walked out of my office nine years ago after I told him he had to drop his championship belt to setup a three-fight trilogy with Marcus Brody. He told me the sport was corrupt, handed me his keys, and vanished into thin air. He cost me thirty million dollars in pay-per-view revenue."
Sterling stepped up to Rhett, touching the young fighter's injured shoulder with a single, sharp finger. Rhett winced, but didn't pull away.
"You didn't get beat by a handyman, Rhett," Sterling hissed softly. "You got humiliated by the greatest pound-for-pound fighter this country has produced in twenty years. And right now, every sports network in North America is laughing at my agency."
"What are we going to do?" Rhett asked, fear finally seeping into his tone.
Sterling turned back to the window, looking out over the city skyline.
"We aren't going to sue him," Sterling murmured. "We aren't going to press assault charges. We are going to offer him a choice."
May you like
"What choice?"
"He comes out of retirement for one fight against you," Sterling said, his eyes glittering with ruthless ambition. "Or I buy the mortgage on that pathetic little sports center where he works, tear it down, and make sure he and his daughter don't have a roof over their heads by next winter."
