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Code swore under his breath. “They use terrain the same way other people use paperwork.”

Zarek’s jaw clenched. “So who’s running this?”

Code didn’t answer right away. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall like he was lining things up in his head.

“We know who,” he said finally. “We just don’t have a clean way to touch him yet.”

My pulse started to race. “You know who’s behind it and he’s still walking around?”

Code looked at me then, really looked at me. “Because he’s not behind it in the way people expect.”

Simon leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Think of it like a pyramid,” he said. “At the bottom, you’ve got recruiters. Maurice is one of those. Loud. Visible. Replaceable.”

“That’s who Zarek met,” I said.

Simon nodded. “Above him are facilitators. Venue managers. Logistics people. Guys who secure locations, transport fighters, handle payouts, clean up problems. None of them know the whole picture.”

“And above them?” I asked.

Code exhaled. “Shell companies. A lot of them.”

He reached for a tablet and turned it so I could see.

Names scrolled past. Bland ones. Forgettable ones.

Blue Hollow Holdings.

RidgeLine Consulting Group.

Ironwake Solutions.

“These don’t do anything illegal on paper,” Code said. “They lease properties. Move money. Fund ‘private events.’ They hire subcontractors. Everything looks legitimate until you zoom out.”

“Who owns them?” I asked.

“Different people,” he said. “Or at least it looks that way. Retired finance guys. Silent partners. Trusts. Offshore accounts. Dead ends by design.”

Zarek frowned. “So, nobody’s actually in charge?”

“Oh, someone is,” Code said grimly. “They just never put their name on anything that bleeds.”

Simon tapped the table once. “He doesn’t run fights,” Simon continued. “He doesn’t recruit fighters. He doesn’t threaten families himself. He connects money to appetite.”

“Intimate Nights at the Colosseum?” I asked, even though I already knew.

“Yep, those are the big payouts,” Code said.

He scrolled again, pulling up another image. A blurred still shot from somewhere dark.

A man in a tailored jacket. No clear face. Just posture. Confidence.

“He hosts,” Simon said. “He’s the one we want.”

“So you don’t have a name,” Zarek said.

“Not yet. We’re calling him The Broker for right now.” Roan answered. “We’re in luck. Code’s found that they have an event planned in Memphis this coming weekend. If we could find out where the fight is, we could get him dead to rights.”

Zarek’s hands curled into fists.