“Yes! Yes!”
Shane dropped him. Dustin collapsed, whimpering. Shane looked around the gym. Every fighter had backed away, phones out, filming.
“Good. Let them see,” Shane said to the silent room. “Anyone else want to teach the old man a lesson?”
Silence. Shane walked out, his knuckles barely bruised, his breathing steady. Behind him, someone was already calling 911.
The knock came at 6:00 AM the next morning. Two detectives, Roosevelt Kent, a black man in his fifties with tired eyes, and Sue Shepard, a sharp-featured woman in her thirties. Shane opened the door in his bathrobe, coffee in hand, expecting this.
“Mr. Jones, we need to talk about an incident at Titan’s Forge gym yesterday.”
“Come in.” Shane led them to the kitchen. Lisa stood by the counter, her lawyer’s face on. She’d made calls last night, prepared for this moment.
Detective Kent pulled out a notebook. “Four men are in the hospital. Perry Cox has a fractured jaw and broken ribs. Lamar Duncan has internal bleeding. Brenton Cantrell has a ruptured eardrum. Andres White’s knee is destroyed. And Dustin Freeman has a concussion, a broken nose, and seven missing teeth. That’s unfortunate,” Shane said evenly.
“Multiple witnesses filmed you assaulting them.”
