Not might.
Would.
“I know, sir.”
He studied me.
“You can withdraw.”
“With respect, sir, no.”
“No one here would hold it against you.”
“I would.”
His jaw moved slightly.
“You've already proven you can keep up.”
“This isn't about proving that.”
“Then what is it about?”
Across the field, workers were assembling temporary bleachers for the following day. Metal frames clattered in the distance.
I watched them briefly.
“Every woman here has spent years watching men like him get away with this.”
Hayes followed my line of sight.
“If I step aside,” I continued, “he wins again.”
Something flickered across Hayes' face.
It vanished almost immediately.
“You think this is bigger than one tournament.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stayed silent.
Then he said, “Sometimes survival requires knowing which fights matter.”
I met his gaze.
“I agree.”
For the first time, his expression became almost impossible to read.
“Get some rest, Mitchell.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walked toward the administration building.
I waited until he was gone.
Then I opened my notebook.
Thursday, 1923. Hayes predicts deliberate misconduct by Briggs. Offers withdrawal instead of intervention. Important.
I underlined that final word twice.
Because by then, the question was no longer simply what Ryan Briggs might do.
It was why Commander Hayes already seemed to know.
Chapter 2: FIVE HUNDRED WITNESSES
Friday arrived hot and bright.
By 0700, hundreds of service members had gathered around the competition field.
My opening match lasted ninety seconds.
My opponent was fast but inexperienced. He charged aggressively, committed too much weight to the movement, and gave me the opening I needed.
I redirected him, controlled his shoulder, and forced him to tap.
I didn't celebrate.
I stood, helped him to his feet, and stepped away from the mat.
Across the field, Briggs was watching.
The second match was harder.
My opponent was a Marine staff sergeant with excellent balance and patient, disciplined footwork.
We circled for nearly two minutes before she attempted to secure a body lock.
I countered.
She reversed me.
We struck the mat hard enough to send pain through my shoulder.
For almost another minute, neither of us gained a decisive position.
Then she shifted her weight at the wrong moment.
I took the opening.
Ten seconds later, she tapped.
When we stood, she smiled.
“Nice.”
“You too.”
She squeezed my shoulder.
“Go ruin somebody else's afternoon.”
For the first time that week, I laughed.
On the opposite side of the field, Briggs had just thrown his opponent down with far more force than necessary.
The referee immediately warned him.
Briggs lifted both hands as if innocent.
The audience cheered anyway.
My third match was painful.
The man facing me had exceptional timing and landed a controlled but heavy body strike that emptied the air from my lungs.
Pain flashed across my ribs.
For three seconds, breathing simply stopped working.
He immediately backed away.
“You good?”
I nodded.
The referee stepped closer.
“Continue?”
“Yes.”
My opponent advanced again.
This time I understood his timing.
Thirty seconds later, I trapped his arm and changed my hip position.
He tapped twice.
I released him immediately.
When I got back to my feet, the entire field tilted for half a second.
I forced myself to breathe slowly.
A medical officer examined my ribs.
“Bruised.”
“Broken?”
“Probably not.”
“Probably?”
“You want certainty, go get imaging.”
I looked toward the tournament bracket.
The semifinal was twenty minutes away.
He followed my gaze and sighed.
“You people are exhausting.”
I smiled faintly.
“So I've been told.”
I won the semifinal by points.
Briggs won his by throwing his opponent so hard that even the front-row officers reacted.
Again, the referee warned him.
Again, Briggs smiled.
Then he turned.
Across the entire field, through hundreds of spectators, he found me.
He lifted one arm and pointed directly toward my chest.
The crowd exploded.
Everyone understood what it meant.
The championship match was set.
By the time Briggs and I walked onto the mat, nearly five hundred soldiers surrounded the ring.
Phones were already held in the air.
Commanders filled the front rows.
Staff Sergeant Daniels stood toward the rear with his arms folded tightly against his chest.
Harper, the medic from the locker room, stood beside him.
Captain Lewis was positioned near the officials' table.
Under the white canopy, the two Pentagon observers watched silently.
Commander Hayes stood about fifteen feet away from them.
But he wasn't looking at Briggs.
He was looking at me.
The referee called us together.
“Controlled techniques. Immediate release on tap. No strikes to joints. No deliberate injury. Understood?”
“Yes,” I answered.
Briggs nodded.
The referee backed away.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Briggs bounced lightly on his feet.
“You tired?”
“No.”