Chapter 3 - THE FIVE-MINUTE BETThe following morning, I met my divorce attorney in an office above a coffee shop.
Her name was Rebecca Shaw.
She was fifty-one, wore dark-framed glasses, and had the unsettling habit of letting people finish lying before she asked her first question.
I'd known her for years. She'd handled contracts for the HVAC company where I worked.
When I told her what Derek had proposed, she stared at me for a full ten seconds.
Then she removed her glasses.
"Absolutely not."
"Good morning to you too."
"Nathan, please tell me you're joking."
"I'm not."
"Your wife is having an affair with a man who wants to assault you on camera in exchange for property that he doesn't own."
"That's one way of putting it."
"It's the only legally accurate way of putting it."
I showed her the video.
She watched it twice.
Then she placed my phone on her desk.
"This is even worse than I thought."
"Because of the money?"
"Because he's making public promises that could be used to manipulate you, and because your wife may be encouraging him."
I leaned forward.
"Can he actually put up the money?"
"That's not the first question."
"Humor me."
Rebecca opened her laptop.
"Who owns the house?"
"Claire and I are both on the deed."
"Mortgage?"
"About a hundred and eighty thousand remaining."
"Market value?"
"Somewhere between eight hundred and fifty and nine hundred thousand."
"So you're discussing a significant amount of equity, but his figure isn't based on a verified appraisal or a property settlement."
"Right."
She tapped her pen.
"And what happens if he gets you to sign something afterward claiming you voluntarily waived your share?"
My stomach tightened.
"That's what Marcus thinks they're planning."
"Who's Marcus?"
"Old friend from the Marines."
She studied me.
"There's more you aren't telling me."
I hesitated.
"Possibly."
"Nathan."
I showed her the photograph I'd received.
She examined it carefully.
"Someone has a picture of your deployment unit?"
"Yes."
"Could that be coincidence?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because the original wasn't publicly circulated. The copy in that office has a handwritten number on the bottom-right corner."
She enlarged the image.
"Three-one-seven."
I nodded.
"That number was written on our vehicle after an investigation."
"What investigation?"
I looked toward the window.
"An explosion in Fallujah. Five Marines were wounded. Two civilians died. The official report said an improvised explosive device hit our convoy."
"And?"
"And I spent the next eighteen years wishing that was the whole story."
Rebecca went quiet.
I hadn't intended to tell her about Fallujah.
But if someone was using my past against me, she needed to understand what kind of trouble might be coming.
"It was November 2004," I began.
"We were moving through a neighborhood after several days of fighting. Our unit had orders to secure a route for medical evacuation. I was riding in the second vehicle."
I stopped.
The memory always arrived in fragments.
Heat.
Dust.
Radio chatter.
A white sedan parked beside a damaged wall.
"We were told the street had been cleared," I continued. "But someone had changed the route markers."
"Who?"
"That's what the investigation couldn't establish."
I rubbed my knee.
"There was an explosion. Our lead vehicle caught fire. I went forward with Marcus to help get people out. That's when the second blast happened."
Rebecca's expression softened.
"You were wounded."
"Yes."
"And the photograph?"
"It was taken two days earlier. The number was added later to identify the vehicle involved in the incident."
She nodded slowly.
"Why would a gym owner care about that?"
"I don't know."
That was the truth.
Or most of it.
There was one detail I hadn't told anyone outside the military.
Minutes before the explosion, our unit received a radio transmission using an identification code that belonged to a different patrol.
I had recognized the voice.
Or thought I had.
But the man connected to that voice had disappeared before investigators could question him.
His name was Aaron Pike.
A civilian logistics contractor.
And fourteen years ago, when Claire and I bought our house, Pike's name had briefly appeared on a background report tied to a supplier at my company.
I'd assumed it was a coincidence.
Now I wasn't so sure.
Rebecca closed the laptop.
"I want you to cancel tonight."
"I know."
"But you're not going to."
"I'm going to the gym. That doesn't mean I'm going to fight."
She considered that.
"Then I'm coming with you."
"No."
"Yes."
"Rebecca, I don't want you near this."
"Too bad. I'm your attorney. And judging by that video, someone needs to explain to these idiots what a legal agreement actually looks like."
For the first time all morning, I smiled.
Then her expression changed.
"One more thing."
"What?"
"Your wife has already consulted an attorney."
I frowned.
"How do you know?"
"Her attorney emailed my office this morning. Claire is seeking exclusive use of the house and temporary spousal support."
I stared at her.
"Spousal support?"
"Yes."
"She earns more than I do."
Rebecca hesitated.
"According to her filing, she recently resigned from her marketing position."
That was news to me.
Claire had worked for a healthcare technology company for nearly eight years. Her salary had helped us pay down the mortgage.
"She quit?"
"Three weeks ago."
Three weeks.
Right around the time she started staying late at Derek's gym.
Rebecca handed me a copy of the filing.
Claire claimed I'd become emotionally withdrawn, physically unpredictable, and financially controlling.
She also described my military injuries as evidence of a volatile temperament.
I read the paragraph twice.
There it was.
My nightmares.
My knee.
The therapy I'd attended after Iraq.
All turned into accusations by the person who had once held my hand through them.
"She knows those statements aren't true," I whispered.
Rebecca nodded.
"Then we'll respond with evidence."
My phone rang.
Marcus.
I answered.
"Nathan, I've got a problem."
"Join the club."
"I checked into Kane."
"And?"
"He's got a business partner. Silent investor."
"Who?"
Marcus didn't respond immediately.
Then he said a name I hadn't heard spoken aloud in nearly two decades.
"Aaron Pike."
The office seemed to tilt.
I gripped the edge of Rebecca's desk.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
I looked at the photograph on my phone.
The vehicle.
The handwriting.
The number.
Suddenly, everything felt connected.
"Where is Pike now?" I asked.
"That's the problem," Marcus answered. "He disappeared from public records six months ago."
"Dead?"
"No."
"Then what?"
Marcus's voice dropped.
"According to the man I spoke with, Pike has been telling people he's finally found the Marine who ruined his life."
I swallowed.
"And he wants revenge."
At that moment, my phone buzzed with another incoming message.
This one was from Claire.
CLAIRE: Derek says tonight is going to be the biggest night of his career. Don't make me regret inviting everyone.
Attached was a photograph of the gym.
Rows of folding chairs surrounded the cage.
Professional cameras were mounted above the entrance.
A digital countdown clock hung over the mat.
And directly beneath it, someone had hung a banner.
FIVE MINUTES TO PROVE YOU'RE A MAN.
I studied the setup.
Then I noticed something on a table near the cage.
A clipboard.
A stack of documents.
And a sign that read:
PROPERTY RELEASE AGREEMENT — PARTICIPANT SIGNATURE REQUIRED.
I showed Rebecca.
Her face went cold.
May you like
"They aren't planning a fight," she said.
"They're planning to make you surrender your house."
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