Joy studied him carefully. “I have a son, too. He’s 25 now. If someone did to him what was done to Nathan…” She left the sentence unfinished. “I’m not supposed to say this, but I hope whoever’s responsible gets exactly what’s coming to them.”
After Joy left, Joel sat in silence for another hour. He thought about his own father, Herman Warren, a Vietnam veteran who taught Joel that some men only understood one language. Herman had died when Joel was 21, right before he enlisted. His last words to Joel were: “Protect what’s yours. The world doesn’t give medals for being reasonable.”
At 2:00 in the morning, Joel left the hospital and drove to Brandon’s gym.
Viper’s Den MMA sat in a strip mall between a protein supplement store and a tanning salon. The lights were off, the parking lot empty. Joel sat in his truck and watched, studying the layout, the exits, the security cameras.
He returned at dawn, watching as the gym came to life. The owner arrived first, a thick-necked man Joel recognized from the gym’s website as Cliff Fritz, a former heavyweight contender who’d opened Viper’s Den after retiring. Then came the early morning warriors—lawyers and accountants and businessmen getting their workout in before heading to offices.
Brandon’s Porsche pulled in at 7:30, the license plate reading Fighter 1. Subtle.
Joel waited. He knew Brandon’s schedule from Instagram: morning training from 8 to 10. Lunch, afternoon clients, evening classes. The fighter had posted yesterday: Morning grind never stops. Champions are built before breakfast. # dedication # no excuses.
This was posted 6 hours after he put a hammer to Nathan’s face.
Joel’s phone rang.
Charlotte.
“Joel, please tell me you haven’t done anything stupid.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“The hospital asked about filing a police report. I told them it was an accident.”
“An accident.”
“Nathan fell. Hit his face on the corner of a table. That’s the story.”
Joel closed his eyes. “You’re protecting him.”
“I’m protecting all of us. If Brandon goes to prison, I lose everything. The house, the lifestyle, the stability. Nathan needs that stability to recover.”
“Nathan needs a father who doesn’t beat him with hammers.”
“It won’t happen again. Brandon promised. He feels terrible about it.”
“He feels terrible.” Joel laughed a cold sound. “Charlotte, do you hear yourself? Your husband fractured our son’s face in 37 places. That’s not discipline gone wrong. That’s attempted murder.”
“You don’t understand the pressure Brandon’s under. He has a title fight coming up. The stress—”
Joel hung up.
He couldn’t listen to more excuses, more justifications, more reasons why a professional fighter beating a 14-year-old boy with a hammer was somehow understandable.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was Kurt.
Joel, we need to talk. I’m hearing things. Don’t make me arrest you.
Joel typed back: All good. Just visiting Nathan.
Three dots then: [ __ ] I know you. Whatever you’re planning, think about Nathan. He needs his father around.
That’s exactly what I’m thinking about.
Joel pocketed his phone and got out of his truck. He walked to a coffee shop across from the gym, ordered a black coffee, and sat by the window. He could see the entrance clearly from here.
Over the next 2 hours, he watched Brandon come and go, watched clients arrive for training, watched the rhythm of the gym. He memorized faces, noted patterns, built a mental map of the place.
At 10:15, Brandon emerged, laughing with a training partner. He wore designer workout clothes, expensive headphones, an Apple Watch that probably cost more than Joel’s monthly rent. He looked like a man without a care in the world. A man who hadn’t destroyed a child’s face the day before.
Joel’s grip on his coffee cup tightened until the cardboard buckled.
“Easy there, killer.”
The voice came from behind him. Joel turned to find a woman in her 40s, coffee in hand, looking at his white knuckles with concern.
“Whatever that cup did to you,” she said, “I think it’s sorry.”
Joel released his grip, offered a tight smile. “Long day.”
“I hear that.” She sat down at the next table. “I’m Moren Meyers. I work at the legal aid office down the street. You look like you could use someone to talk to.”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“No offense, but you don’t look good. You look like someone who’s about to make a bad decision.”
Joel studied her. Moren had kind eyes, the sort of face that had seen trouble and learned to recognize it in others.
“What makes you think that?”
“I’ve been a public defender for 15 years. I know the look. Someone wronged you and you’re deciding whether to handle it the legal way or the other way. And if I’m leaning toward the other way, then I’d remind you that prison food is terrible and vengeance feels good for about 5 minutes before the consequences set in.” She pulled out a business card. “But I’d also say that I understand sometimes the legal system fails people. Sometimes justice takes too long. Sometimes the only way to protect what you love is to step outside the lines.”
Joel took the card. “You’re not a very good public defender.”
“I’m an excellent public defender. I’m also a realist.” She stood, finished her coffee. “Whatever you decide, be smart about it. Don’t let emotion make you sloppy.”
After she left, Joel sat for another 20 minutes. Moren was right. Emotion made people sloppy. Joel had seen it in combat, in training, in fights. The moment someone got angry, they got predictable.
He couldn’t afford to be predictable.
At noon, he drove to his construction site. His crew was already working. His foreman, a burly man named Oscar Skinner, waved him over.
“Boss, you look like hell.”
“My son’s in the hospital. Facial reconstruction surgery.”
Oscar’s expression darkened. “Jesus. What happened?”
“His stepfather happened. Brandon Chambers. The fighter.”
Oscar had met Nathan a few times at company picnics. “That piece of [ __ ] What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Yes, you do.” Oscar lowered his voice. “I saw you fight in that exhibition match 2 years ago. I saw what you did to that guy who outweighed you by 40 lb. If you need an alibi, you’ve got one. You’re with me all day. We were working late on the Riverside project.”
Joel met his friend’s eyes. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering. Nathan’s a good kid. What happened to him?” Oscar shook his head. “That’s not right. Someone needs to answer for it.”
“The legal system—”
“The legal system lets guys like Chambers walk because they have money and lawyers. You know it. I know it. So, if the system won’t handle it, maybe someone else should.”
Joel spent the rest of the day at the construction site working with his hands, letting the physical labor clear his mind. By the time he left at 6, he’d made his decision.
He stopped at a sporting goods store and bought hand wraps—the good kind, the kind that protected knuckles during extended beatings. Then he drove to Ali’s bar and had one beer, just one, to settle his nerves.
The bartender, Noel Leblanc, had known Joel for years.
“Heard about Nathan?” Noel said, sliding the beer across the bar. “That’s rough, man.”
“Yeah.”
“You doing okay?”
“I will be.”
Noel wiped down the bar, his expression thoughtful. “I had a cousin who got beat up by his stepdad when he was a kid. Broken ribs, black eyes, the whole thing. My uncle—my cousin’s real dad—he tried to do it the right way. Went to the cops, filed reports, got lawyers involved. The system dragged it out for 2 years. By the time they finally got a conviction, the stepdad got probation.”
“Probation?”
“My cousin never recovered from it. He’s 30 now, still in therapy, still dealing with the trauma.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that sometimes the right way isn’t the effective way. Sometimes you have to be the solution.” Noel met Joel’s eyes. “I’m not saying you should do anything illegal. I’m just saying I understand if you do.”
Joel finished his beer and left a 20 on the bar. “Thanks, Noel.”
“Good luck, brother. Whatever you’re planning.”
At 8 that evening, Joel returned to Nathan’s hospital room. The boy was awake this time, groggy from pain medication, his eyes barely visible through the swelling.
“Dad.”
Nathan’s voice was muffled, distorted by his injuries.
“I’m here, buddy. Right here.”
“It hurts.”
“I know. They’re going to fix you tomorrow. You’re going to be okay.”
Nathan tried to speak. Struggled with the words.
“Brandon. He said I was disrespecting him. I just asked if I could have dinner with you on Wednesday. He got so angry.”
Joel’s jaw clenched. “What happened?”
“He grabbed me, started yelling. I pushed him away, told him he wasn’t my dad.” Nathan’s voice broke. “That’s when he… he went to the garage, came back with a hammer. I tried to run, but he caught me. He kept saying, ‘You need to learn respect. You need to learn your place.’”
“How many times did he hit you?”
“I don’t know. I stopped counting after 10. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“Where was your mother?”
“She was at yoga. She came home and found me. She was screaming at Brandon, but he just kept saying I brought it on myself. That I disrespected him in his own house.”
Joel took Nathan’s hand carefully. “Listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. What happened to you isn’t your fault.”
“Mom said we can’t tell the police. She said it would ruin everything.”
“Your mom is wrong.”
“But what if—”
“No what-ifs. Brandon hurt you. He needs to pay for that.” Joel squeezed his son’s hand gently. “I’m going to make sure he pays for that.”
Nathan’s eyes widened as much as the swelling allowed. “Dad, don’t do anything stupid. Brandon’s dangerous. He’ll hurt you, too.”
“Brandon’s a cage fighter. I’m a Marine. There’s a difference. But get some sleep, buddy. Tomorrow’s surgery day. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
After Nathan drifted off, Joel left the hospital and drove back to Viper’s Den. It was nearly 10 at night. The parking lot was empty except for Brandon’s Porsche and Cliff’s truck. The lights were still on inside.
Joel parked across the street and waited.
Forty minutes later, Cliff emerged, locked the door, and drove away. Brandon’s Porsche sat alone.
Joel checked his watch. 10:47 p.m.
He pulled on his hand wraps, flexing his fingers, feeling the familiar tension of fabric against skin. In the Marines, they taught him that preparation was 90% of victory. The other 10% was execution.
He got out of his truck and walked across the parking lot.
The gym’s windows were covered with promotional posters. Brandon’s face mid-punch with text reading, “The Viper, undefeated and unstoppable.”
Joel studied the poster for a moment, memorizing the arrogance in Brandon’s expression. Then he waited.
At 11:12, the gym door opened. Brandon emerged, gym bag slung over his shoulder, phone pressed to his ear. He was laughing about something, his voice carrying across the empty parking lot.
“No, man. The kid had it coming. You should have seen him. All indignant and [ __ ] You’re not my dad. Like, I give a [ __ ]”
More laughter.
“Charlotte’s freaking out, but she’ll get over it. Women always do.”
Brandon reached his Porsche, still on the phone. He popped the trunk, tossed his gym bag inside.
Joel stepped out of the shadows.
“Brandon Chambers.”
The fighter spun, hand dropping to his side instinctively. Fighter stance taking over. When he saw Joel, his expression shifted from alert to annoyed.
“Who the [ __ ] are you?”
“Joel Warren. Nathan’s father.”
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