Brandon’s eyes narrowed. Then recognition dawned. A smile spread across his face.
“Oh [ __ ] you’re Charlotte’s ex, the construction worker.” He laughed. “Man, she warned me you might show up. Said you were some tough guy, Marine or whatever.”
“Or whatever.”
“Look, your kid got mouthy. I disciplined him. That’s what happens in my house. You don’t like it? Take it up with Charlotte.”
“I’d rather take it up with you.”
Brandon sized Joel up, taking in the hand wraps, the stance, the cold fury in Joel’s eyes.
“You serious right now? You want to throw down?”
“I want you to understand what you did.”
“What I did was teach your brat some respect. Something you clearly failed at.” Brandon tossed his phone into his car. “But hey, if you want a lesson, too, I’m happy to provide. Free of charge.”
“That’s generous.”
Brandon grinned, cracking his knuckles. “I’m 18 and zero, old man. I’ve put down professional fighters. What makes you think you could do anything to me?”
“Because they followed rules.”
Joel moved. 20 years of combatives training condensed into one explosive moment. He closed the distance faster than Brandon expected, slipping inside the fighter’s guard before Brandon could throw.
Joel’s first strike was a palm heel to Brandon’s solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs. While Brandon gasped, Joel stepped behind him, wrapped his arm around Brandon’s throat and squeezed.
Brandon thrashed, trained instincts taking over. He tried to peel Joel’s arm away, tried to drop his weight, tried everything they’d taught him in jiu-jitsu. But Joel had learned these techniques from men who used them to kill, not to win trophies.
He maintained pressure, cutting off blood flow to Brandon’s brain. 15 seconds: Brandon’s struggles weakened. 20 seconds: his movements became sluggish. 25 seconds: he went limp.
Joel released him, letting Brandon collapse to the pavement. The fighter coughed, gasping for air, his face red.
Before he could recover, Joel grabbed his right hand and stomped on the wrist, hyperextending the joint. Brandon screamed.
“That’s one,” Joel said calmly.
He stomped on Brandon’s left wrist. Another scream.
“That’s two.”
Brandon tried to scramble away, but Joel was already on him. He dragged the fighter to his feet and drove a knee into his ribs, feeling them crack. Brandon doubled over, and Joel delivered an elbow to the back of his head, dropping him again.
“How many times did you hit my son?” Joel’s voice was ice. “Thirty-seven fractures.”
Brandon lay on the ground, groaning, trying to curl into a protective ball. Joel stood over him, methodical, precise. This wasn’t about anger anymore. This was about mathematics, about balance, about making sure Brandon understood the cost of what he’d done.
Joel grabbed Brandon’s left leg and twisted, applying pressure to the knee joint. Brandon howled.
“You used a hammer,” Joel said, “because you knew you needed a weapon to do that much damage to a child. You’re not a fighter. You’re a coward.”
He released the leg and kicked Brandon in the ribs again. Then again, each strike measured, controlled, designed to cause maximum pain without killing.
Brandon tried to cover up, but his broken wrists made it impossible.
“Please,” Brandon gasped. “Please stop.”
“Did Nathan say please?” Joel crouched beside the fighter. “Did he beg you to stop while you were beating him?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. But you will be.”
Joel stood and delivered one final kick to Brandon’s face, feeling teeth break beneath his boot. Brandon went still, unconscious, blood pooling on the pavement.
Joel pulled out his phone and dialed 911.
“I need an ambulance at Viper Den MMA. Man down. Facial injuries.”
He hung up before they could ask questions. He looked at Brandon one last time. The fighter’s face was destroyed—nose shattered, orbital bones crushed, jaw broken. 37 fractures, maybe more.
Poetic justice.
Joel walked back to his truck and drove away. Three blocks later, he pulled over and called Kurt.
“Joel, I need to tell you something.” A pause. “Where are you?”
“Heading home.”
“Listen, I was at the hospital with Nathan all night. Oscar Skinner can confirm I was with him at the construction site all day today. Noel at Ali’s saw me earlier this evening.”
“Joel.”
“Brandon Chambers assaulted my son with a hammer. 37 fractures. Charlotte refuses to press charges. The system failed Nathan. Someone had to do something.”
Another pause.
“Did you do something?”
“Hypothetically, if someone beat Brandon Chambers nearly to death in the parking lot of the gym, would that someone face murder charges if Brandon dies?”
“Jesus Christ. Joel.”
“Answer the question.”
“Depends on intent. If someone intended to kill him, that’s attempted murder or murder. If someone intended to hurt him to make him understand what he did and things went too far, that’s aggravated assault. Maybe manslaughter if he dies. With a good lawyer, self-defense could play. Brandon’s a professional fighter. Any reasonable person would fear for their life in a confrontation, even if that person sought out the confrontation.”
“Joel, I can’t be having this conversation.”
“I understand. Thanks, Kurt.”
“Wait—”
Joel hung up and removed the battery from his phone.
He drove home in silence, his knuckles throbbing beneath the hand wraps. When he got to his apartment, he burned the hand wraps in the kitchen sink, flushing the ashes down the toilet. Then he showered, washing away any trace evidence, watching the water circle the drain.
His hands shook as he dried off—not from fear, from adrenaline crash, from the weight of what he’d done. He’d ended men before in combat in defense of his country. But this was different. This was personal. This was a choice.
He thought about Nathan in that hospital bed, face destroyed, asking his father not to do anything stupid.
Joel lay in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for the knock on the door that might never come.
Joel woke at 5:30 to his phone buzzing. He’d replaced the battery during the night. The screen showed three missed calls from Charlotte and seven from various news outlets.
He ignored them all and drove to the hospital.
Nathan was already in pre-op, groggy from the sedatives. Joel held his hand while Dr. Duncan explained the procedure: titanium plates to reconstruct the orbital bones, pins to stabilize the jaw, grafts to repair the shattered cheekbone.
“He’ll be in surgery for 8 to 10 hours,” Dr. Duncan said. “We’ll do our best.”
“I know you will.”
After they wheeled Nathan away, Joel sat in the waiting room and finally checked his phone.
The news headlines were everywhere. UFC fighter Brandon Chambers in critical condition after brutal assault. The Viper hospitalized with life-threatening injuries. Police search for suspect in attack on welterweight contender.
Joel opened the article. Brandon had been found by paramedics at 11:47 p.m., unconscious in the parking lot of Viper Den MMA. His injuries included shattered orbital bones, broken nose, fractured jaw, three broken ribs, two broken wrists, damaged his left knee, and 33 broken or missing teeth. He was in a medically induced coma at Mercy General, the same hospital where Nathan was being operated on.
“Different hospital would have been better,” Joel muttered.
His phone rang.
Charlotte.
“You son of a [ __ ]”
“Charlotte, don’t play stupid. I know it was you. The police know it was you. Brandon’s in a coma because of you.”
“Is he? That’s unfortunate.”
“You’re going to prison. I’m going to make sure you go to prison.”
“For what? I was with my son all night. Check the visitor logs.”
“You left at 11:00.”
“Brandon was attacked at 11:15. Plenty of time to drive home, which I did. Oscar Skinner saw me at midnight. We had a beer. Talked about the Riverside project.”
“You’re lying.”
“Prove it.”
Charlotte was crying now. Her voice breaking. “Brandon could die. Do you understand that? He could die and it would be your fault.”
“Nathan almost died, but that didn’t seem to bother you much.”
“That was different. Brandon didn’t mean to hurt Nathan that badly. It was an accident.”
“37 fractures isn’t an accident, Charlotte. It’s attempted murder and you let him get away with it. So, someone else had to deliver justice.”
“It wasn’t your place.”
“I’m his father. It’s exactly my place.”
Joel hung up.
2 minutes later, Kurt arrived.
“We need to talk.”
They went to the cafeteria, found a quiet corner. Kurt looked exhausted, the sort of tired that came from working all night.
“I’ve been up since midnight,” Kurt said. “Got called to the scene. Brandon Chambers beaten nearly to death. My partner immediately said, ‘Check the ex-husband.’ So I did. And you were at the hospital from 9 to 11:00 p.m. Multiple witnesses confirmed that, including nurses and the security guard. After that, your timeline gets fuzzy.”
“I went home.”
“Anyone see you?”
“Not until midnight when Oscar stopped by.”
“Convenient timing.”
“Oscar likes to check in. He’s a good friend.”
Kurt leaned forward. “Joel, I’m going to tell you something off the record. If this conversation ever comes up in court, I’ll deny it. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Brandon Chambers is a piece of [ __ ]. I responded to three domestic calls at his previous address before he moved in with Charlotte. Two different girlfriends. Both cases mysteriously dropped when they got paid off. The guy has a history of violence against women and anyone else he perceives as weak.”
“Sounds like a stand-up citizen.”
“My point is, I get it. I understand why someone would want to hurt him. Hell, I understand why someone would want to kill him. But you need to understand that we have an investigation. We have witnesses placing a truck matching your truck’s description in the area. We have motive. We have opportunity.”
“Do you have evidence?”
Kurt shook his head. “Not yet. No cameras caught the assault. No witnesses saw it happen. The parking lot was empty. Whoever did this was smart about it.”
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