Chapter 2 - THE GHOST OF FALLUJAHI hadn't spoken to Marcus Reyes in three years.
That wasn't because we hated each other.
It was because some friendships are built around memories neither man wants to revisit.
Marcus had been my platoon sergeant in Iraq, back when I was a twenty-year-old corporal who believed courage meant never admitting you were afraid.
He'd taught me otherwise.
He'd also carried me nearly four hundred yards through a street full of gunfire when a piece of shrapnel tore through my left knee.
If that man told me something was wrong, I listened.
I called him immediately.
He answered on the first ring.
"Walker."
"Gunny."
"Don't call me that. I'm retired."
"You'll always be Gunny."
He didn't laugh.
"Tell me you haven't accepted that stupid challenge."
"I accepted."
There was a long silence.
Then I heard him exhale.
"Son of a—Nathan, what the hell are you thinking?"
"I wasn't thinking about fighting him. I was thinking about getting my wife to stop using me as entertainment."
"You don't owe that woman a performance."
"I know."
"Then cancel."
I sat at the kitchen table.
"Who trained Derek Hayes?"
Marcus hesitated.
"His original coach was a guy named Victor Kane."
The name meant nothing.
"Should I know him?"
"Maybe not. He fought professionally for a few years. Opened several gyms. Built a reputation for turning college wrestlers into regional MMA prospects."
"Sounds ordinary."
"He also runs an operation that makes money from staged confrontations."
I frowned.
"Staged?"
"Rich guys challenge fighters. Retired athletes get humiliated. Everything gets filmed. Clips go viral. Sponsors pay. Sometimes people make side bets."
"You're telling me Derek challenged me for internet views?"
"I'm telling you that if a guy like Kane thinks he can make money watching someone get hurt, he'll put a price tag on the opportunity."
I leaned back.
"How do you know him?"
Another pause.
"Because he tried to recruit one of my boys after the service."
"Who?"
"Chris Maddox."
My stomach tightened.
Chris had served with us in Fallujah.
He'd survived the deployment but spent years struggling afterward. I'd helped him find a job, paid for a few months of housing, and lost contact when he moved to Arizona.
"What happened to Chris?"
"Nothing good. Kane got him into underground fights when he needed money. Chris ended up hospitalized."
"Did he report it?"
"Not at first. He was ashamed."
I stared at the unopened repair invoice.
"What does Derek know about me?"
"That's what worries me."
"Marcus."
"He knows you served."
"Claire told him that."
"And he knows you were injured."
"She told him that too."
Marcus lowered his voice.
"Apparently he also knows you trained hand-to-hand instructors at Camp Lejeune after Iraq."
I went still.
My wife didn't know that.
At least, I had never told her in those words.
Before the explosion that damaged my knee, I'd spent years practicing boxing, wrestling, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program. My work had eventually included teaching other Marines.
I wasn't a professional cage fighter.
I was never an undefeated champion.
But I'd spent enough time on mats to understand leverage, pressure, timing, and the difference between controlled training and a man trying to prove something.
After Fallujah, I'd trained until my knee could handle ordinary movement again.
Then I'd stopped.
Not because I was weak.
Because I was tired.
"Maybe he did his homework," I said.
"Or maybe someone wants him to believe you're harmless."
I looked toward the stairs.
Claire's suitcase was still near the bedroom.
"Why would anyone care?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm telling you not to go."
I rubbed my forehead.
"Can you come tomorrow?"
"I was already planning to."
"Marcus—"
"Don't argue. You're terrible at it."
The call ended.
I sat for several minutes, listening to the refrigerator hum.
Then Claire walked into the kitchen wearing a silk robe I'd given her for our tenth anniversary.
She stopped when she saw me.
"I thought you left."
"I came back for some paperwork."
She looked at the open drawer beside me.
"What paperwork?"
"Mortgage documents."
Her expression shifted.
"Why?"
"Because tomorrow I'm calling a divorce attorney."
She rolled her eyes.
"You're really going to make this ugly?"
"Claire, you're sleeping with another man. You called me pathetic. Now that man is trying to turn our divorce into a boxing match."
"It's MMA, Nathan. Not boxing."
"Thank you for the correction."
She crossed her arms.
"Derek thinks you're trying to take advantage of me financially."
I stared at her.
"I paid the down payment on this house."
"We're married. That doesn't mean you get to hold it over my head."
"I'm not holding anything over your head."
"Then accept his deal."
I almost couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"Do you understand what you're asking?"
She shrugged.
"Five minutes. Derek says he'll go easy."
I stood.
My knee popped.
Her eyes dropped toward it.
For a moment, there was something close to pity on her face.
Then it vanished.
"You know what?" she said. "Maybe this is exactly what you need."
"What?"
"Something that forces you to understand reality."
I didn't answer.
She moved closer.
"Derek is younger. Stronger. Ambitious. He isn't afraid of anything."
I thought about a dusty street in Fallujah.
A burning vehicle.
A seventeen-year-old Iraqi translator named Samir who had refused to abandon the injured.
The sound of Marcus screaming my name.
And eleven faces that still appeared in my dreams.
"Everybody's afraid of something," I said quietly.
Claire scoffed.
"Not Derek."
"Then he hasn't met the right thing yet."
She frowned.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
I took the mortgage folder and headed toward the door.
Behind me, she called out.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow, Nathan. Don't embarrass me."
I stopped.
Slowly, I turned.
"Claire, there's something you need to understand."
She raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Whatever happens tomorrow, I'm not fighting for you."
Her smile disappeared.
"I'm fighting because I won't let someone else decide what my life is worth."
I walked out.
That evening, I checked into a small hotel outside downtown Columbus.
I had barely set my bag down when a text arrived from an unfamiliar number.
It contained a video.
Derek stood inside a cage beneath bright lights.
Behind him were three muscular men and a banner that read:
IRON MOUNTAIN MMA — PRIDE HAS A PRICE.
Derek smiled at the camera.
"Tomorrow night, seven o'clock. We're giving one washed-up military veteran a chance to prove he's still a man. Five minutes with me, and he gets four hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
He flexed.
"But let's be realistic. I doubt he'll make it through the first round."
Someone off-camera laughed.
Then Derek added:
"And if you're watching, Nathan, bring your little war stories. They won't save you."
The video ended.
A moment later, another message appeared.
UNKNOWN: He isn't planning to stop when you tap. Stay away.
I stared at those words.
Then a third message arrived.
A photograph.
Derek stood beside a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a black jacket.
Victor Kane.
Behind them, barely visible in the gym office, hung a framed photograph.
I enlarged it.
Six men in desert uniforms.
A damaged armored vehicle.
A dusty street.
I recognized every face.
It was my photograph from Fallujah.
But I had never given that photograph to anyone at Iron Mountain MMA.
May you like
And the man standing beside Derek in the gym office was pointing directly at my face.
Someone had been looking for me long before Derek started sleeping with my wife.
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