A banner was being unrolled, bright red and black. Vance Elite MMA and Self-Defense Academy, it read in bold letters. Below that, smaller text: Protecting Cedar Falls one lesson at a time. “Huh,” Walt said half to himself. “What is it?” Margaret asked. Walt didn’t answer right away. He just watched the banner get pinned up, his eyes narrowing slightly the way they used to narrow when something at a crime scene didn’t quite add up. He couldn’t have told you why exactly. Just an old instinct, the kind thirty-one years on the job leaves behind. A feeling that something loud was about to walk through that door. He was right.
At exactly seven o’clock, the doors at the back of the gymnasium swung open and Derek Vance made his entrance. There’s no other way to describe it. He didn’t walk in. He arrived. He came through the door flanked by two younger men in matching black polo shirts, both of them carrying gym bags with the Vance Elite logo stitched across the side. Derek himself wore his pressed white gi, the black belt cinched tight, three golden stripes embroidered near the knot. He was thirty-four years old, tall, built like someone who spent two hours a day in front of a mirror, which he did. His hair was perfectly combed. His smile was the kind that had clearly been practiced.
“Cedar Falls,” he called out loud enough that half the room turned to look. “Are we ready to learn how to protect ourselves tonight?” A scattered round of applause followed. Pauline Kesler hurried over, clipboard still in hand, beaming. “Mr. Vance, thank you so much for coming,” she said. “We’re so grateful for the donation.” “Please call me Derek,” he said, flashing that smile again. “And honestly, it’s my pleasure. I believe every senior citizen in this town deserves to feel safe. That’s not a business decision. That’s a mission.” It sounded good. It always did when Derek said it.
Grant Wexler moved in with his camera, sensing a good sound bite when he heard one. “Mind if I get a quick word for tonight’s broadcast?” “Absolutely,” Derek said, already turning to face the lens, chin lifted at exactly the right angle. While the camera rolled, Derek talked about his academy. Three years in business. Two black belts of his own, he said, though he never quite specified in what or from whom. A regional title he’d apparently won years ago, the details of which changed slightly depending on who was listening. “I’ve trained fighters,” he told Grant, his voice dropping into something more serious. “Real fighters, competition level, but tonight isn’t about that. Tonight is about giving back to the people who need it most.” It was a good line. Grant nodded, satisfied, and moved his camera toward the crowd for some reaction shots.