Malcolm: He has the signed contract.
Daniel: He won’t have it for long.
Agrippa felt something cold settle in his chest.
The signed contract had disappeared from his belongings shortly after the fight. Malcolm had claimed it was being held by the company’s legal department. When Agrippa later asked for a copy, he was told the document could not be located.
He had believed the explanation because he had no reason to think the man he trusted had stolen it.
Another file contained an audio recording.
Agrippa hesitated before pressing play.
A familiar voice filled the quiet room.
Malcolm.
“You promised me the numbers would balance.”
Daniel answered, “They will. But Fisher’s victory changed the arrangement.”
“Then change it back.”
“That isn’t how the agreement works.”
“Make it work.”
A pause followed. Then Daniel spoke again.
“There is another problem. He kept notes. If those notes connect the transfers to the original contract, we could lose everything.”
“Then find the notebook.”
“And if he already copied it?”
Malcolm’s voice dropped.
“Then make sure nobody believes him.”
The recording ended.
Agrippa stood motionless.
Natalie looked as though she might be sick.
“That’s enough to reopen the investigation,” she whispered. “If the files are authentic, it could prove they deliberately altered the financial records.”
“Not just the financial records.”
He opened the final file.
A scanned medical report appeared on the screen. It contained the results of an examination performed two days before the championship. The report clearly stated that Agrippa’s knee injury placed him at significant risk of further damage. It recommended postponing the fight.
Below the report was a second document, signed by a different physician, declaring Agrippa fit to compete.
The signature looked genuine.
The examination details did not.
Someone had copied the doctor’s signature onto a report containing medical findings that had never been recorded.
Agrippa remembered Malcolm telling him that the medical team had cleared him. He remembered Victor arguing that he should withdraw. He remembered the pain in his knee and the certainty that if he abandoned the fight, the promotion would collapse.
He had fought anyway.
He had won.
And someone had spent years ensuring that he would never discover how much his victory had cost him.
A sound came from the staircase.
Footsteps.
Natalie turned toward the door.
“Did you tell Victor where we were going?”
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
The footsteps stopped outside.
Then the door opened.
Trent Maddox stood in the entrance, breathing hard. His face was pale, and he held his phone in one hand.
Agrippa moved instinctively between him and Natalie.
“What are you doing here?”
Trent raised his free hand.
“I’m not here to fight you.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I know who Malcolm Rourke is. I know he’s using us. And I think someone is trying to kill you.”
Natalie backed away from the desk.
Agrippa did not move.
“Why should I believe you?”
Trent swallowed.
“Because I have something you need to see.”
He turned the phone around.
On the screen was a photograph of Malcolm standing outside a hotel with Daniel Voss. Between them stood a third man, his face partly obscured by the shadow of a doorway.
Agrippa recognized him immediately.
Dr. Samuel Keene.
The physician who had signed the medical report declaring him fit to fight.
But that was not what made Agrippa’s blood run cold.
The photograph was dated six months earlier.
Samuel Keene had supposedly died three years ago.
And according to the official records, Malcolm Rourke had attended his funeral.
The photograph lay between Agrippa Fisher and Natalie Brooks like a loaded weapon.
Malcolm Rourke stood outside the hotel in a dark overcoat, his familiar smile fixed in place. Beside him was Daniel Voss, thinner than Agrippa remembered but unmistakable. The third man had silver hair, a narrow face, and the posture of someone who had spent a lifetime telling other people what their bodies could endure.
Dr. Samuel Keene.
“He was pronounced dead three years ago,” Natalie said. She studied the image beneath the bare bulb of the old gym office. “I remember the notice. Rourke Promotions paid for the memorial.”
“Apparently they paid for a story,” Trent Maddox muttered.
Agrippa barely heard him. The sight of Keene had carried him backward to the weeks before the championship: the smell of antiseptic, the cold examination table, the doctor’s fingers pressing into his injured knee. Keene had told him the damage was manageable. He had signed the clearance that let Agrippa enter the cage.
Only later had Agrippa learned that the first report recommended postponement.
“Why would a dead doctor be meeting Malcolm?” Agrippa asked.
“Because he isn’t dead,” Natalie answered. “And because somebody needed him to disappear.”