Chapter 19 - The Final Strike
Volkov stumbled to his feet, his throat red, his eyes wild with desperate fury. He looked at Victor Vance in the corner, who was frantically gesturing for him to attack.
Volkov charged Thomas one last time, swinging wildly with zero technique, driven purely by panic and brute force.
Thomas didn't move until the final microsecond. As Volkov’s massive fist flew toward his face, Thomas slid his right foot back six inches, slipping the punch by a hair's breadth. He reached out with both hands, gently cupping Volkov’s elbow and neck, and utilized Volkov’s relentless forward momentum to execute a perfect palm-strike to the sternum—the exact strike Ethan had used to win the national championship five years ago.
BOOM!
The strike landed directly over Volkov’s heart, stopping the massive man’s momentum cold. Volkov’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward onto the canvas face-first, completely unconscious.
DING! DING! DING!
The arena blew the roof off. Twenty thousand people rose to their feet, screaming, cheering, and stomping their feet so hard the steel floor of the United Center vibrated.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" the ring announcer shouted over the deafening noise. "YOUR WINNERS BY SUBMISSION AND KNOCKOUT... AND THE NEW CHICAGO COMBAT LEAGUE CHAMPIONS... THOMAS HALE AND MARCUS VANCE!"
Marcus dropped to his knees, covering his face with his wrapped hands, weeping tears of pure release and joy. Thomas walked over, knelt down, and pulled Marcus into a tight, brotherly embrace.
At ringside, Victor Vance stood frozen, his cigar falling from his fingers onto the concrete floor. His face was pale, his eyes hollow with total defeat.
Before Victor could turn to leave the arena, Detective Ray Mendez and four federal agents stepped out of the tunnel, blocking his exit.
"Victor Vance," Detective Mendez said, pulling out a pair of steel handcuffs. "You are under arrest for the murder of Ethan Hale, federal wire fraud, and witness tampering."
Victor looked around frantically, but his legal counsel and athletic commission allies had already slipped away into the crowd, leaving him completely alone. As the cold steel cuffs clicked around his wrists, Victor looked up into the cage.
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Thomas Hale stood at the turnbuckle, looking down at Victor Vance with quiet, dignified pity. There was no victory dance, no taunting, no theatrical posturing. Thomas simply reached under his fight shorts, pulled out the small brass key he had carried in his gym bag, and held it up in the bright lights of the arena.
The truth had finally arrived. And Victor Vance was led away in chains through the very crowd that was celebrating his downfall.
