Cole and Brett were near reception.

Dmitri was balancing the register.

Thomas stopped the cart.

Preston placed one hand on it.

"You never really apologized."

Dmitri looked up.

"Preston, let it go."

"I'm talking to him."

Thomas looked at the laundry.

"I need to take these towels out."

Preston smiled.

"Say, 'Excuse me, Mr. Harrington.'"

Cole laughed.

Thomas finally looked at Preston.

Not quickly.

Not aggressively.

Just completely.

His pale blue eyes were still.

There was no fear in them.

No anger.

No submission.

Nothing Preston understood.

"I'm not going to say that."

The smile vanished.

Preston shoved the cart.

It rolled backward and slammed into the wall.

Several towels fell to the floor.

Dmitri came around the desk.

"Enough."

Preston stepped closer to Thomas.

"You think you're somebody?"

"No."

"That's right."

Preston shoved him.

Thomas moved one step backward.

Only one.

He looked at Preston's hand.

Then at his face.

"Don't do that again."

Preston laughed.

"Or what?"

Thomas bent down.

He picked up a towel.

Then another.

He placed them back into the cart.

Preston looked almost disappointed.

"Pathetic."

Thomas pushed the cart toward the door.

But Preston wasn't finished.

He grabbed Thomas by the shoulder and spun him around.

That was when Thomas changed.

Only for a fraction of a second.

His left hand caught Preston's wrist.

His right foot moved behind Preston's heel.

His shoulder turned.

Preston's balance disappeared.

He was halfway to the floor before he realized what had happened.

Thomas stopped.

He could have finished the movement.

He didn't.

He released Preston.

Preston stumbled backward.

Everyone stared.

Dmitri's mouth was slightly open.

Cole whispered:

"What the hell?"

Thomas picked up the mop.

"Sorry."

Preston's face turned red.

"You assaulted me."

Thomas looked at him.

"No."

"You just threw me!"

"I stopped you from falling."

"Call the police."

Dmitri stepped between them.

"Preston."

"I want him fired."

Thomas looked at Dmitri.

Dmitri looked away.

The silence said everything.

Thomas nodded.

He pushed the cart through the door.

Behind him, Preston shouted:

"You're going to regret that!"

Thomas kept walking.

He reached the loading dock.

Rain had started.

He stood beneath the awning.

For a moment, he looked at his reflection in the dark glass.

Forty-eight.

Gray hair.

Old scars.

A slight limp.

A mop bucket.

Nobody.

That was what he wanted.

Then his phone vibrated.

One message.

From a number he had deleted years ago.

WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.

Thomas stared at the screen.

His face became completely still.

The rain fell harder.

And somewhere inside Apex Combat Academy, the man nobody saw had just become visible to someone who had been searching for him for six years.

The Scar Under the Sleeve

Thomas did not sleep that night.

He sat in his small apartment with the lights off.

The message remained on his phone.

WE KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.

No signature.

No explanation.

He deleted it.

Then restored it from the trash.

Deleted it again.

At 2:17 a.m., he finally stood and walked to the closet.

Behind several old jackets was a metal case.

He pulled it out.

The lock opened with a combination he had not entered in years.

Inside was a black uniform.

Folded.

Clean.

Untouched.

A photograph rested on top.

Thomas picked it up.

Seven men stood beside a helicopter.

Six were smiling.

The seventh wasn't.

Thomas.

Beside him stood Captain Daniel Mercer.

Mercer had been his closest friend.

His brother without the paperwork.

The photograph had been taken two days before everything went wrong.

Thomas put it down.

Underneath it was a small metal insignia.

He touched it.

Then quickly withdrew his hand.

"No," he whispered.

He closed the case.

At 7:30 the next morning, Thomas returned to Apex.

Dmitri was waiting.

"You okay?"

"Yes."

"You don't look okay."

Thomas shrugged.

Dmitri lowered his voice.

"About yesterday."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Thomas looked at him.

Dmitri sighed.

"I saw what you did."

Thomas waited.

"You didn't hurt him."

"No."

"You could have."

Thomas said nothing.

Dmitri studied him.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Different job."

"What job?"

Thomas smiled faintly.

"The boring kind."

Dmitri laughed.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I know."

Before Dmitri could ask another question, the front door opened.

Richard Harrington entered.

He was sixty-one.

Expensive coat.

Silver hair.

Watch worth more than Dmitri's car.

Two attorneys followed him.

Preston walked behind them.

His nose was still slightly swollen.

Richard pointed at Thomas.

"That's him."

Dmitri stepped forward.

"Mr. Harrington—"

"Don't."

Richard looked around the gym.

"My son was assaulted."

"He wasn't."

Richard ignored Dmitri.

"By an employee."

Thomas remained silent.

Richard walked closer.

"Do you know who I am?"

Thomas looked at him.

"Yes."

Richard smiled.

"Then you understand what happens next."

Thomas nodded.

"I do."

"Good."

Richard turned toward Dmitri.

"Fire him."

Dmitri swallowed.

"Thomas has worked here for five years."

"I don't care."

"He hasn't had a complaint."

"I don't care."

"He didn't start the confrontation."

Richard's voice became colder.

"My company has invested six hundred thousand dollars in this facility."

Dmitri looked down.

Thomas understood.

Money had entered the room.

Money always changed the air.

Richard turned back to Thomas.

"You have children?"

Thomas hesitated.

"Yes."

"How old?"

"Fifteen."

Richard smiled.

"Then you should think carefully about keeping your job."

Thomas stared at him.

That sentence crossed a line.

Not because it was threatening.

Because it was familiar.

Thomas had heard powerful men speak that way before.

He looked at Richard.

"Don't mention my daughter again."

Richard's smile disappeared.

Preston stepped forward.

"You're going to regret—"

Thomas raised one hand.

Not threatening.

Just enough.

Preston stopped.

Richard looked at his son.

Then back at Thomas.

"You think you're brave."

"No."

"Then what are you?"

Thomas answered quietly.

"Finished."

He walked toward the locker room.

Richard laughed.

"You're finished when I say you're finished."

Thomas stopped.

He didn't turn around.

"That's what they all said."

Richard frowned.

"Who?"

Thomas kept walking.

Nobody knew what he meant.

Dmitri did.

Or at least he suspected.

That afternoon, Thomas received a second message.

ASK YOURSELF WHY MERCER DIED.

Thomas dropped the phone.

For six years, he had never said Daniel Mercer's name aloud.

Not once.

Not to his daughter.

Not to Dmitri.

Not even to himself.

Now somebody had brought the dead man back.

Thomas sat in the maintenance room.

His hands shook.

He hated that.

Fear was familiar.