THE BOXER WHO REFUSED THE MONEY

Panic wasted oxygen.

His older brother had taught him that when Cole was thirteen and terrified before his first amateur bout.

When your brain says run, Ethan had told him, give it a job instead.

So Cole looked around.

No windows large enough to climb through.

Main door locked.

A narrow equipment closet.

Bathroom.

And a service corridor behind a metal fire door used by maintenance staff.

Cole tried it.

Locked from the room side with a push bar.

Good.

He shoved it open and stepped into a dim hallway lined with electrical panels and cleaning supplies.

Three minutes later, he emerged into the main gym.

Ray Mercer nearly collided with him.

Ray was sixty-one, broad through the shoulders despite a growing stomach, with gray hair and the permanently battered nose of a man who had spent too many years inside boxing gyms.

"What the hell are you doing back here?"

Cole stared at him.

"Roman Drake was in my room."

Ray stopped.

"What?"

"He knew when I'd be alone."

Ray's face changed.

"Did he touch you?"

"No."

"His guys?"

"No."

Ray exhaled.

"What did he want?"

Cole looked around.

A few younger fighters were still training.

He lowered his voice.

"He offered me three million to lose tomorrow."

Ray went pale.

"Jesus."

"You seem surprised."

"I am."

"Are you?"

Ray looked offended.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Somebody told him when I'd be alone."

Ray stared at him.

Cole continued.

"He knew which room. He knew the schedule. He walked in without anyone stopping him."

"Roman knows everybody in Vegas."

"He doesn't know my private workout schedule unless somebody tells him."

Ray rubbed his jaw.

"Could've been staff."

"Could've."

Ray reached into his pocket.

His phone vibrated.

The moment Cole looked toward it, Ray turned the screen inward.

It was subtle.

Too subtle for most people.

Cole had spent twenty years reading shoulders, eyes and hands.

"You expecting someone?"

Ray frowned.

"What?"

"Your phone."

"It's nothing."

"Show me."

"Don't start."

"Show me."

Ray's expression hardened.

"I'm your trainer, not your employee."

Cole stepped closer.

"And I'm fighting for a world title tomorrow after a gangster offered me three million dollars to lose. So forgive me if I'm suddenly interested in everybody's phone."

For several seconds Ray looked angry.

Then he handed it over.

The latest message was from Cole's manager, Victor Sloan.

WHERE IS HE?

Cole looked at Ray.

"Victor wanted to know where I was?"

"We're all trying to keep track of you twenty-four hours before the fight."

Cole gave the phone back.

Ray lowered his voice.

"Listen to me. You don't play tough with Roman Drake."

"I wasn't playing."

"That's exactly what worries me."

Cole grabbed his gym bag.

Ray followed.

"What did you tell him?"

"That I'm knocking Darius out."

Ray stopped walking.

"You said that to Roman?"

Cole looked back.

"Yes."

Ray shut his eyes.

"For God's sake, Cole."

"What?"

"You think this is one of your press conferences?"

"No."

"You think that man cares about boxing?"

"He came to the wrong room if he doesn't."

Ray grabbed Cole's arm.

"Listen."

Cole glanced down at Ray's hand.

Ray released him.

His voice softened.

"Something happens around men like Roman, nobody knows anything. Cameras stop working. Witnesses remember differently. People disappear from businesses and show up six months later living in Florida, pretending they never heard of Las Vegas."

Cole studied him.

"You sound familiar with the process."

Ray's expression flickered.

There.

Cole saw it.

Something hidden.

Before he could ask, his own phone buzzed inside his bag.

He pulled it out.

Unknown number.

A text.

YOUR BROTHER SHOULD HAVE TAKEN THE MONEY TOO.

Cole stopped breathing.