Chapter 7
The bouncer hesitated, his eyes darting from Claire’s composed expression to the manila envelope, then to Mark’s imposing, unyielding stance. After a tense moment that stretched like elastic, the heavy metal door clicked open, revealing a cavernous, smoke-filled room dominated by a regulation boxing ring under blinding halogen lights. The smell of sweat, cheap beer, and ozone hung thick in the air. A crowd of hard-faced men turned to look as they entered, the ambient chatter dying down to an uneasy murmur.
At ringside sat Vince, a sharp-featured man in an expensive tailored suit that looked entirely out of place in the industrial ruin. He was cleaning his fingernails with a small silver pocketknife, surrounded by three burly associates. Vince looked up, his cold, calculating eyes fixing on Mark first, then narrowing as they settled on Claire.
"Well, well," Vince drawled, standing up slowly and slipping the knife into his pocket. "The prodigal fighter returns, and he brought an audience. What is this, Mark? Did you bring your wife to watch you get put down for the count?"
"I didn't bring him to fight, Vince," Claire said, stepping forward before Mark could speak. She tossed the manila envelope onto the canvas of the ring apron, right at Vince's polished shoes. "We're here to settle."
Vince didn't look down at the envelope immediately. He kept his eyes locked on Claire, a thin, patronizing smile playing on his lips. "Sweetheart, your husband owes this operation twenty thousand dollars in back interest and penalties. You don't settle debts like that with a visit. You settle them with blood and broken bones inside those ropes."
"Open the envelope, Vince," Claire countered, her tone unwavering.
Vince’s smile faltered slightly at her lack of fear. He picked up the envelope, slid out the contents, and scanned the first few pages under the harsh halogen glare. As his eyes tracked across the meticulously compiled columns of illegal interest rates, unpermitted cash transfers, and state tax violations, the color slowly drained from his face. The patronizing smirk vanished entirely, replaced by a dark, dangerous scowl.
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"Where did you get this?" Vince hissed, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper.
"Does it matter?" Claire replied evenly. "What matters is that copies of these ledgers are currently sitting in a secure digital lockbox programmed to release to the state attorney general's office if either my husband or I fail to return home by midnight."
