Chapter 7 - The Shadow of Vanguard
While we sweated and trained in the frozen mountains of Montana, the corporate machinery of Vanguard Promotions was working overtime in New York and Los Angeles to sabotage the event from behind the scenes.
Marcus Vance sat in his leather executive chair on the fiftieth floor of his Manhattan skyscraper, swirling scotch while his lead legal fixer, Arthur Sterling, laid out a thick binder of documents on the mahogany desk.
"It’s a logistical nightmare, Marcus," Sterling said, adjusting his glasses. "The athletic commission is breathing down our necks regarding safety regulations for an exhibition of this magnitude. Petrov is a monster in his prime, and Mrs. Carter hasn't fought in a regulation bout in ten years. If she takes serious damage in the ring, the liability lawsuits alone could bankrupt us."
Vance chuckled darkly, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Do you really think I care about liability, Arthur? This fight is generating five hundred million dollars in projected global revenue. Pay-per-view pre-orders are shattering records set by championship bouts. I don't care if she gets knocked out; I don't care if she wins. I just need the fight to happen."
"There's another problem," Sterling added, hesitating.
Vance’s eyes narrowed. "What kind of problem?"
"Our corporate intelligence team has been monitoring Evelyn Carter's financial movements. She isn't just training in Montana. Two days ago, a series of encrypted wire transfers originated from an offshore account tied to her former legal counsel—the very same lawyers who beat us in federal court a decade ago."
Vance slammed his glass down onto the desk, splashing amber liquid across the mahogany. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying she didn't just agree to this fight for the purse, Marcus. She’s using the global spotlight and the independent promotion rights we foolishly signed over to launch a federal antitrust investigation into Vanguard's entire operational history. She’s building a case against us for racketeering, financial coercion, and match-fixing from 2012 to 2015."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the penthouse office. Vance’s face turned the color of ash. He realized with terrifying clarity that he hadn't lured a caged animal back into the ring; he had invited an apex predator directly into his own house, and she had spent ten years sharpening her claws.
"Can we buy her off?" Vance whispered, his voice trembling slightly with sudden panic.
"She doesn't want money, Marcus," Sterling said grimly. "She wants blood. And she wants your empire."
Vance stood up, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, staring down at the tiny specks of cars crawling through the bustling Manhattan streets below. A cold, desperate fury took hold of him. If legal and corporate warfare wasn't going to stop her, he would have to ensure she never made it to the Madison Square Garden ring at all.
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"Contact our friends in the underground circuit," Vance muttered, his voice cold and devoid of human emotion. "Tell them I want an 'accident' during her final sparring session in Montana. Make it look like a training injury. Something severe enough to permanently ground 'The Quiet Storm' once and for all."
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