Chapter 4 - THE MAN COLE WAS SUPPOSED TO LOSE TOThe vehicles outside did not belong to Roman.
One was facility security.
The other was a late-night renter.
Cole exhaled.
Frank did not.
“Get everything.”
Cole packed the notebook, tapes and betting slips.
Hannah grabbed Jack’s photographs.
Frank drove them to Amelia’s apartment—Hannah’s friend, not Cole’s sister—because it was the only place Roman was unlikely to know.
Cole wanted the evidence copied immediately.
Frank knew a retired sports journalist named Marvin Pike.
“Can we trust him?”
Frank answered:
“He hated Roman before hating Roman became fashionable.”
By two in the morning, Marvin was awake.
By three, he had seen the VHS transfer.
The footage was grainy but clear enough.
Jack Maddox fought Vince Calder in a smoky casino ballroom.
Jack dropped Calder.
Then dominated several rounds.
In the seventh, Jack’s trainer entered the ring between exchanges claiming Jack could not continue.
Jack looked furious.
He shoved away the trainer.
The referee ended it.
Calder won by technical stoppage.
Marvin paused the footage.
“That’s not a fighter quitting.”
Frank nodded.
Marvin examined the betting slips.
“These names are old.”
“Can they be proven?”
“Some.”
“Roman?”
Marvin tapped the page.
“His name doesn’t prove he placed bets.”
Cole pointed to shorthand numbers.
“What’s that?”
Marvin smiled grimly.
“Odds movement.”
Jack had documented unusual betting spikes.
Large wagers on Calder by stoppage in rounds six through eight.
Someone had known.
Cole sat back.
“Why didn’t Dad go public?”
Frank answered.
“He tried.”
Marvin nodded.
“No outlet wanted it. Jack was a journeyman. Calder was a rising star. Roman’s people painted Jack as bitter.”
Cole looked at the VHS.
“Could this matter now?”
“Historically? Sure.”
“Legally?”
“Depends what else exists.”
Cole thought about Roman’s panic.
Maybe Jack had more.
Then Marvin asked:
“Why is Drake suddenly worried about a twenty-year-old fight?”
Cole told him about tomorrow.
Darius Mercer.
Marvin’s expression changed.
“Mercer?”
“You know something?”
“Roman has been moving around Mercer’s career for years.”
“How?”
“Not officially. But Mercer’s manager, Leo Valdez, owes Roman money.”
Frank swore.
Cole leaned forward.
“How much?”
“Nobody knows.”
Marvin opened his laptop.
“Mercer’s last four fights had unusually heavy late betting.”
“Fixed?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But suspicious.”
“Yes.”
Cole looked at Frank.
“So Roman needs Mercer to win.”
“Maybe.”
Marvin shook his head.
“Not just win.”
“What?”
“If the books are expecting a specific outcome, method matters.”
Cole remembered.
Sixth round.
Roman told him to go down in the sixth.
Marvin typed quickly.
“Odds on Mercer by knockout in rounds five through seven shortened dramatically today.”
Cole stared.
“How much money?”
“Could be millions across legal and offshore markets.”
Frank exhaled.
Roman was not offering Cole a bribe out of personal preference.
He was protecting a betting position.
Cole asked:
“Does Mercer know?”
Marvin looked at him.
“That’s the dangerous question.”
At eight that morning, Cole attended the mandatory rules meeting.
Darius Mercer arrived surrounded by his team.
Tall.
Calm.
Sharp.
He and Cole had never disliked each other.
Promoters tried to manufacture tension.
Neither bothered.
Darius extended a hand.
Cole shook it.
“You sleep?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
Cameras clicked.
Darius leaned closer.
“Roman talk to you?”
Cole’s expression did not change.
“Why?”
Darius released his hand.
“No reason.”
Cole watched him walk away.
Interesting.
Later, Cole found Darius alone near a backstage corridor.
“Wait.”
Darius turned.
Cole kept his voice low.
“What did Roman offer you?”
Darius’s face hardened.
“Careful.”
“That’s not a no.”
Darius glanced around.
“He didn’t offer me anything.”
“Then why ask if he talked to me?”
Darius stepped closer.
“My manager got weird this week.”
“How?”
“Told me not to chase the knockout early.”
Cole’s stomach tightened.
“What round?”
Darius stared.
“Six.”
They stood in silence.
Neither man had agreed to fix anything.
But both corners had received instructions pushing toward the same outcome.
Cole laughed bitterly.
“Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“Apparently you’re knocking me out tomorrow.”
Darius did not smile.
“Not if I don’t.”
Cole looked at him.
For the first time, the opponent he was supposed to hate looked like another man being used.
Darius whispered:
“My manager owes someone.”
“Roman.”
“I think so.”
Cole nodded.
“My father fought Roman’s system twenty years ago.”
Darius frowned.
“What does that have to do with us?”
“Maybe everything.”
Before Cole could explain, Leo Valdez appeared.
“Darius.”
His eyes moved to Cole.
“What are you two discussing?”
Darius answered:
“Nothing.”
Leo looked at Cole.
“Keep it that way.”
Cole smiled.
“See you tomorrow.”
He walked off.
Frank waited around the corner.
“Well?”
“Mercer isn’t in on it.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“But?”
“He’s scared too.”
Frank looked toward Darius’s team.
Cole continued:
“Roman doesn’t need fighters to agree. He needs everyone around them to make the outcome happen.”
That realization made the situation worse.
If Mercer did not know, Cole could not simply expose him publicly.
He needed evidence.
Real evidence.
Not suspicion.
Marvin called that afternoon.
“I found something in Jack’s notebook.”
“What?”
“A payment code.”
“To who?”
“Your father’s trainer.”
Cole closed his eyes.
“Can you trace it?”
“Maybe.”
“Do it.”
Marvin hesitated.
“There’s another name.”
“Who?”
“Leo Valdez.”
Cole stopped.
“Mercer’s manager?”
“Same name. Twenty years ago he was an assistant in Calder’s camp.”
Cole felt cold.
The network had not disappeared.
It had aged.
Roman.
Leo.
Old methods.
New fighters.
May you like
Tomorrow’s bout was not simply history repeating itself.
It was being run by some of the same men.
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