Before Dustin could recover, Shane was on him, trapping an arm behind his back. Shane slammed Dustin’s face into the chain-link once, twice, three times. Blood splattered, teeth cracked.
Shane spun Dustin around and lifted him by the throat, speaking inches from his ruined face. “You ever come near my daughter again, I will find you. You understand me?”
Dustin gurgled something that might have been agreement.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes! Yes!”
Shane dropped him. Dustin collapsed, whimpering. Shane looked around the gym. Every fighter had backed away, phones out, filming.
“Good. Let them see,” Shane said to the silent room. “Anyone else want to teach the old man a lesson?”
Silence. Shane walked out, his knuckles barely bruised, his breathing steady. Behind him, someone was already calling 911.
The knock came at 6:00 AM the next morning. Two detectives, Roosevelt Kent, a black man in his fifties with tired eyes, and Sue Shepard, a sharp-featured woman in her thirties. Shane opened the door in his bathrobe, coffee in hand, expecting this.
