Chapter 12 - The Iron Law
The final charge was entirely devoid of discipline. Marcus swung with everything left in his sinews—a wild, telegraphed overhand right that carried all his remaining weight and desperation.
Frank didn't even need to slip. He stepped half an inch inside the punch’s trajectory, letting Marcus’s arm whistle harmlessly past his shoulder.
In that frozen split second of perfect alignment, Frank planted both feet into the wood. The power surged from his ankles, through his hips, twisting through his torso and detonating down the length of his right arm.
The Hammer.
Frank’s right fist struck Marcus dead center on the chin.
The sound was sharp, like an axe splitting green pine. Marcus’s eyes rolled back into his skull instantly. The tension vanished from his muscular frame like strings cut from a marionette. He collapsed forward, his forehead striking the canvas with an unceremonious, dead-weight thud.
He didn't twitch. He didn't roll. He was out cold.
The referee didn't bother counting. He threw his arms wide and stepped over the fallen fighter. ""That's it! It’s over!""
The pit erupted into absolute bedlam. Men were screaming, throwing betting tickets into the air, some cheering hysterically while others smashed beer bottles against the brick walls.
Frank stood over Marcus for five long seconds. He didn't raise his hands in victory. He didn't celebrate. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate measures. He knelt down beside his fallen student, reached out, and carefully rolled Marcus onto his side into the recovery position to prevent him from choking on his own blood.
Maya was already through the ropes, throwing a towel over Frank’s shoulders. Her face was pale with relief, tears shining in her eyes. ""You did it, Coach. You knocked him cold.""
Frank didn't look at her; he looked at Viktor.
Viktor was already backing away from the timber rail, signaling to his two bodyguards. He pulled his cashmere coat tight, his face gray with fury and calculated retreat. He had lost hundreds of thousands of dollars, but worse, his prize prospect was broken on a basement floor.
""Viktor,"" Frank called out. His voice was not loud, but it cut through the din like a blade.
Viktor stopped at the foot of the wooden stairs, turning slowly.
Frank reached down into Marcus’s corner, picked up the legal folder containing the foreclosure notice and the gym’s mortgage papers that Viktor had brought to gloat over, and held it up.
May you like
""Tell your board of directors that Miller Academy doesn't owe them a single cent,"" Frank said, his knuckles dripping blood onto the paper.
Viktor stared at him for a long, venomous second, then turned on his heel and disappeared up the stairs into the rainy night.
