Shane’s vision narrowed to a tunnel. “How bad?”
“Concussion, bruised ribs, split lip. She says she fell downstairs, but Shane, there are defensive wounds on her forearms. And witnesses saw her arguing with Dustin in the parking lot of his gym an hour ago.”
The phone cracked in Shane’s grip. “I’m on my way.”
But he didn’t go to the hospital. Not yet. First, he drove to Titan’s Forge. The gym occupied a converted warehouse on the industrial side of town. Bass-heavy music pounded from inside, mixed with the thud of fists on bags and coaches barking orders. Shane parked and sat for five minutes, breathing deeply, finding the cold, calm center he’d cultivated in combat zones.
When he walked through the door, the smell hit him: sweat, testosterone, and arrogance. Twenty fighters were scattered across the space. Dustin Freeman stood near a cage, laughing with his coach, Perry Cox, and three other fighters. Dustin was tall, muscular, covered in tattoos, with that predatory confidence that came from never facing real consequences.
