Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN BEHIND THE GLASSIronclad MMA occupied a converted warehouse on the north side of Columbus.
From the outside, it looked like any other high-end training facility.
Tall windows.
Black steel doors.
A giant silver logo above the entrance.
But when Rebecca and I arrived at eleven fifty-five, there were nearly forty people gathered outside.
Some wore gym shirts.
Others held phones.
A few recognized me immediately.
"That's him!"
"The old guy!"
"Hey, Mercer! You really gonna fight?"
Rebecca stepped between me and the crowd.
"Keep walking."
I did.
My knee ached from the cold morning air.
I hadn't slept more than three hours.
And I was beginning to understand exactly how deliberately Brandon had constructed this spectacle.
Every camera.
Every insult.
Every mocking comment online.
He wanted me angry.
He wanted me reckless.
He wanted me to forget that the world I lived in now had courts, attorneys, and consequences.
Inside the gym, loud music shook the walls.
The main training area was covered in blue mats.
Heavy bags hung from reinforced beams.
American flags decorated the walls.
At the center stood a full-size MMA cage.
Brandon was already inside.
He was shirtless, wearing black shorts and gloves.
Several students surrounded him.
Claire stood beside the cage in an expensive blue dress.
She looked almost exactly as she had in the video.
Beautiful.
Confident.
Laughing at something Brandon said.
Then she saw me.
Her expression changed.
"Daniel."
I stopped a few feet away.
"Claire."
She looked at Rebecca.
"Why did you bring her?"
Rebecca answered before I could.
"Because your boyfriend invited him to discuss a financial agreement."
Claire rolled her eyes.
"This doesn't need lawyers."
"Your marital property division does," Rebecca replied.
Several people nearby laughed.
Claire flushed.
Brandon leaned against the cage fence.
"Well, look who decided to show up!"
The music lowered.
Phones rose.
He smiled directly into a camera.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Daniel Mercer!"
Someone clapped sarcastically.
A few others booed.
I stood quietly.
Brandon opened the cage door.
"Come on in, old man."
Rebecca touched my elbow.
"Daniel."
I shook my head slightly.
"No."
Brandon's grin widened.
"Scared already?"
I looked up at him.
"I'm here to discuss the proposed agreement."
He laughed.
"Man, you really do talk like an accountant."
"Do you have the money?"
His smile faltered.
"What?"
"The one hundred eighty thousand dollars. Can you demonstrate that you can actually pay it?"
The crowd became quieter.
Brandon stepped closer.
"Of course I have it."
"Then your lawyer can provide proof of funds."
Claire crossed her arms.
"Oh my God, Daniel. Stop making everything complicated."
Rebecca turned toward her.
"Claire, he's asking the only sensible question anybody in this building has raised."
Brandon's jaw tightened.
He climbed down from the cage.
Up close, he was several inches taller than me.
At least thirty pounds heavier.
And young enough to believe those facts settled everything.
"Listen carefully," he said. "I gave you a chance to settle this with dignity."
I watched him.
"Then why are there cameras?"
He smirked.
"Because people love competition."
"Or humiliation?"
His eyes narrowed.
"Same thing, sometimes."
I nodded.
"Good to know."
He stepped closer.
"Here's the offer. Five-minute exhibition. Standard MMA gloves. Independent referee. You stay in there with me until the bell, you get your money."
"Who pays?"
"Me."
"From what account?"
His expression darkened.
Rebecca opened her briefcase.
"We can discuss financial documentation. But nothing signed here will replace the legally required divorce process, and my client won't waive his rights to marital property."
Brandon stared at her.
Then he laughed.
"Lady, nobody asked for a lecture."
Rebecca smiled pleasantly.
"That's unfortunate, because you're getting one."
A few people chuckled.
I noticed someone watching from the far side of the gym.
A broad-shouldered older man wearing a gray polo shirt.
Short white hair.
Thick neck.
He stood near the office window, observing every word.
I recognized him immediately.
Owen Cross.
For eleven years, I'd imagined what I might feel if I saw him again.
Rage.
Hatred.
Fear.
Instead, I felt strangely calm.
He looked older than he had in Iraq.
His face was heavier.
His hair had gone white.
But the expression was the same.
A businessman studying a problem he believed money could solve.
He raised one hand in greeting.
I didn't return it.
Brandon followed my gaze.
"You know my dad?"
Claire turned.
"Your father came?"
Brandon didn't answer.
That was interesting.
Her surprise looked genuine.
Owen walked toward us.
"Daniel Mercer."
He extended his hand.
I looked at it.
Didn't move.
"Mr. Cross."
His smile tightened.
"Still holding grudges?"
Rebecca looked between us.
"Have you met?"
"Years ago," Owen said.
"Overseas," I replied.
Claire stared.
"Wait. You know Brandon's father?"
"Apparently," I said.
Brandon laughed.
"Small world, huh?"
Owen studied me.
"You look well, considering."
"My knee disagrees."
"Unfortunate injury."
"Unfortunate circumstances."
Something shifted in his eyes.
He understood exactly what I meant.
Then he turned to Rebecca.
"I'm sure my son has been overly enthusiastic about this arrangement."
"That's one description," she replied.
"Young men are competitive."
"And grown men are responsible for their actions."
Owen smiled.
"You must be his attorney."
"Rebecca Sloan."
"Perhaps we can resolve this professionally."
"I'd welcome that."
He gestured toward the office.
"Shall we?"
Rebecca looked at me.
I nodded.
We followed him.
The office had glass walls overlooking the gym.
On one side stood a polished desk.
On the other hung framed photographs of Brandon standing beside fighters, politicians, and local business owners.
One picture showed him with Owen at a charity fundraiser for veterans.
The irony made my stomach turn.
Owen sat behind the desk.
Rebecca remained standing.
So did I.
"Daniel," Owen began, "I understand you're going through a painful divorce."
I said nothing.
"My son has feelings for Claire. They're adults. These things happen."
"Yes."
"No reason to make this ugly."
"Then why did you call me last night?"
He didn't blink.
"I called to offer advice."
"About Michael Bennett?"
The air changed.
Rebecca watched him closely.
Owen leaned back.
"Ah."
I took out my phone.
"I documented the call immediately afterward."
His eyes flickered.
Then his smile returned.
"Very prudent."
"Someone also left Michael's photograph on my truck."
"That's terrible."
"Yes."
"Have you reported it?"
"Of course."
He studied me for several seconds.
Then he opened a desk drawer and removed a folder.
"Let's discuss the house."
Rebecca crossed her arms.
"Go ahead."
"Claire wants a clean separation. Brandon wants to help. Daniel wants compensation. Everybody can walk away satisfied."
He slid a document across the desk.
Rebecca read the first page.
Then the second.
Her eyebrows rose.
"This isn't simply an exhibition agreement."
Owen said nothing.
She flipped another page.
"This includes a confidentiality provision, a release of certain past claims, and language restricting Daniel's ability to discuss individuals associated with Cross Meridian Holdings."
I felt my pulse accelerate.
"Why?"
Owen's expression remained pleasant.
"Standard protection against reputational harm."
Rebecca looked up.
"From a five-minute gym exhibition?"
"From any resulting publicity."
She slid the document back.
"No."
Owen finally stopped smiling.
"Excuse me?"
"No," Rebecca repeated. "My client is not signing this."
Brandon burst through the office door.
"What's taking so long?"
Owen held up a hand.
"Not now."
But Brandon kept talking.
"Dad, he's just trying to get out of it!"
I watched the older man.
Something about the way he controlled his son was familiar.
Not affectionate.
Not protective.
Possessive.
Like Brandon was another asset in a portfolio.
Owen stood.
"Daniel, perhaps we should speak privately."
"No."
His jaw tightened.
"Your attorney doesn't need to hear everything."
"Then I don't need to hear it either."
For the first time, genuine irritation crossed his face.
"You're making a mistake."
I met his gaze.
"That's what you told Michael."
Silence.
Brandon frowned.
"Who the hell is Michael?"
Claire looked at me.
"Daniel, what is going on?"
Before I could answer, Owen moved toward the door.
"Meeting over."
Rebecca gathered her documents.
"Agreed."
We walked back through the gym.
The crowd had grown.
Brandon hurried after us.
"Hey!"
I kept moving.
"Mercer!"
I stopped.
He stepped directly into my path.
"You're not walking away from me."
I looked at him.
"Move."
He grinned.
"What are you gonna do? Limp around me?"
I said nothing.
Then he shoved my shoulder.
Not hard enough to knock me down.
Just enough to provoke me.
Every instinct I'd spent eleven years controlling woke at once.
My weight shifted automatically.
My hands loosened.
I noticed the position of his feet.
The angle of his hips.
The distance between us.
Then I heard Michael's voice in my memory.
Don't let somebody else pick your fight, Danny.
I stepped back.
Brandon laughed.
"That's right."
Rebecca spoke sharply.
"Do not touch my client again."
Several phones were recording.
Brandon spread his arms.
"What? The old soldier needs his lawyer to protect him?"
Claire shook her head.
"Daniel, this is embarrassing."
I turned toward her.
For the first time, I let myself look at the woman I'd married without trying to see the woman she used to be.
"You're right," I said.
She blinked.
"What?"
"This is embarrassing."
Her mouth opened.
"But not for the reason you think."
Then I walked out.
Nobody stopped me.
Outside, Rebecca exhaled.
"Well, that was educational."
"Did you notice the confidentiality clause?"
"Yes."
"Cross Meridian?"
"Yes."
I looked back at the gym.
Owen stood behind the glass.
Watching.
Rebecca followed my gaze.
"Daniel, whatever is going on, don't give those men the fight they want."
I nodded.
But as we reached my truck, her phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
Then her face went pale.
"What do you mean, gone?"
I turned.
She held up a finger.
"Are you sure?"
A moment later, she ended the call.
"That was my assistant."
"What happened?"
"The accountant who contacted Colonel Reed three weeks ago."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"What about him?"
"His name is Arthur Bell. He had an appointment with a federal investigator this afternoon."
"And?"
Rebecca swallowed.
"His apartment was found empty this morning. His phone and car are still there."
I stared at her.
"Has anyone reported him missing?"
"His sister has."
I turned toward the gym.
Owen was no longer at the window.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number appeared.
The notebook won't save you, Mercer.
I froze.
Because only three people knew Michael Bennett's notebook was in my possession.
Me.
Sophie.
May you like
And Colonel Reed.
Someone had been listening.
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