Read Chapter 9: The Double Agent

The club’s training ground canteen smelled of stale coffee and bleach, the fluorescent lights buzzing like a trapped fly. James sat at the far table, a cold cup in front of him, watching the door. Levi had argued against this. *A rival agent? In the middle of the night? You’re walking into a trap.*

But the text had come through Sidra’s burner, forwarded from a contact she trusted. *I know who owns Redwood. Meet me. Come alone.*

The door creaked. A man stepped in—tall, impeccably dressed in a charcoal overcoat, silver hair swept back. James recognized him from press photos. Viktor Sorensen. Danish super-agent, represented half a dozen Premier League stars, had a reputation for playing clubs against each other like chess pieces. The kind of man who smiled during contract negotiations and left you feeling like you’d lost even when you won.

“Mr. Okafor.” Sorensen’s voice was smooth, accented but precise. He pulled out the chair opposite James and sat, unbuttoning his coat with theatrical ease. “I expected you to bring security. Or at least that investigator you’ve been running around with.”

“I came alone,” James said. “You said you had something for me. I’m assuming it’s not a sponsorship deal.”

Sorensen laughed—a short, practiced sound. “I like you. Direct. Most sporting directors I meet are all handshakes and hidden knives. You’re a different breed.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “Redwood Holdings. You’ve been chasing them for weeks. Whitfield, the phantom payments, the safe in Webb’s office. Impressive work, for a man the tabloids are calling a saboteur.”

James’s jaw tightened. “If you called me here to recap the news, I’ve got a board vote in six hours.”

“No.” Sorensen’s smile faded. “I called you because I need something from you. And in exchange, I’m willing to give you something that will make Lockwood’s little smear campaign look like a parking ticket.”

James waited. The silence stretched. Sorensen seemed to enjoy it.

“Redwood Holdings is a shell,” Sorensen finally said. “You know that. But you don’t know who’s behind it. You think it’s Lockwood. It’s not. Lockwood is a puppet—a wealthy one, but a puppet nonetheless. The strings go higher.”

“Marsh said the same thing. Said Lockwood fronted for a betting syndicate.”

Sorensen’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Theodore Marsh. You’ve been busy.” He paused, tapping a finger on the table. “Marsh told you the truth, but he didn’t tell you all of it. The syndicate isn’t just betting on matches. They’re investing in clubs to control outcomes—not just wins and losses, but transfers, player values, injury reports. They’re building a portfolio of influence across European football. Your club is one of their acquisitions.”

“Acquisitions.” James tasted the word like poison. “People aren’t assets.”

“To them, they are. Players, referees, even fans. It’s all just data points in a system designed to extract profit.” Sorensen reached into his coat and pulled out a folded document, sliding it across the table. “The ownership chain. Redwood Holdings to a Luxemburg trust to a holding company in Cyprus. And then the names.”

James unfolded it. The paper was dense, legal jargon crowded into tight paragraphs. But near the bottom, a list of names was highlighted in yellow. Six of them. He didn’t recognize most—investment firms, wealthy individuals with Middle Eastern and Eastern European ties. One name stood out.

“Khalid Al-Rashid,” James read aloud. “He owns a Qatari club. Al-Wahda FC.”

“He does.” Sorensen nodded. “Which makes him perfectly positioned to buy players from struggling English clubs at inflated prices and park them in Qatar. Money gets laundered through transfer fees. The players rot on the bench or get loaned back. No one asks questions because the fees keep the lights on.”

James’s mind raced. “And Lockwood?”

“A partner. Originally invested in your club as a genuine fan, I believe. But when the debts piled up, the syndicate offered him a way out. They’d fund the purchase, clear the debt, and in exchange, he’d run the club as their puppet. He gets to play owner, they get control of the on-pitch product.”

“The product.” James’s voice was flat. “The match-fixing. Whitfield. The 2014 Dutch defeat.”

Sorensen didn’t flinch. “That was before my time with them. But yes, that’s their method. Referees, linesmen, even match delegates. Everyone has a price or a weakness. Paul Shackleton found that out the hard way.”

James recalled Webb’s sister’s words. *The Redwood scheme paid for the silence of the dead.* “Shackleton was killed?”

“Disappeared,” Sorensen corrected. “Same thing, in their world. He was due to report irregularities in the delegate paperwork for that match. The syndicate found out. They made sure he never filed the report.”

The room felt colder. James stared at the paper, the names swimming before his eyes. “Why are you telling me this? You’re one of the biggest agents in Europe. You broker deals with these people. What do you get out of burning them?”

For the first time, Sorensen’s mask slipped. Something flickered in his eyes—fear, maybe, or anger. “Because they tried to recruit me. Last year. They wanted me to funnel players toward certain clubs, inflate fees, take a cut. I refused.” He paused. “A week later, my daughter’s car brakes failed on the motorway. She’s fine—lucky—but the message was clear.”

James’s breath caught. *They have my son.* The burner phone in his pocket felt heavier all of a sudden.

“So you want revenge,” James said.

“I want them stopped,” Sorensen said. “But I’m not a hero. I’m a businessman. I can’t fight them directly—they’d destroy my career, my family. You, on the other hand, are already covered in mud. No one expects you to survive this. Which makes you dangerous. And useful.”

“You said you need something from me.”

Sorensen nodded. “I have a client. Striker. Twenty-three, explosive pace, scores goals for fun. Playing in Denmark. But he’s got a release clause that expires in January. I need a club to trigger it—your club.”

James laughed harshly. “We’re bankrupt. I have no transfer budget. The league is about to sanction us.”

“You’ll have budget,” Sorensen said. “Once the syndicate is exposed, the league will freeze assets, force a sale. New owners will come in. And when they do, I want your first signing to be my client. A pre-negotiated agreement, signed tonight, contingent on your new ownership.”

“You want me to commit a future owner to a transfer they haven’t approved?”

“I want you to make a promise,” Sorensen said. “One you can deliver on. You’re a smart man. If you survive this, you’ll have enormous credibility—the man who saved the club. Owners will listen to you. One phone call, a recommendation, that’s all I need.”

James studied him. He could see the calculation behind Sorensen’s eyes—a man who always wanted something, even when he was offering help. But the document in his hand was real. The names were real. And James was running out of options.

“If I sign this,” James said slowly, “you confirm everything you’ve told me. In writing. Signed, notarized, ready to submit to the league.”

Sorensen smiled. “It’s already prepared.” He pulled a second document from his coat. “You sign mine, I sign yours. Then we both have leverage over each other. That’s how trust works in this business.”

James stared at the two papers. His pen hovered over Sorensen’s transfer agreement. He thought of Daniel Webb—adopted, missing, held as leverage. He thought of Sidra, urging patience. He thought of the board vote in hours, the only thing standing between him and Lockwood’s victory.

He signed.

Sorensen scrawled his signature with a silver pen and handed over the notarized statement. James scanned it—the same ownership chain, but now with a signed declaration confirming the syndicate’s existence and Sorensen’s role as a witness to a conspiracy meeting in Monaco six months prior.

“They’ll kill you for this,” James said, pocketing the document.

“They’ll try,” Sorensen replied. He stood, buttoning his coat. “One more thing. The text you received—about the son. It’s not Daniel Webb’s father who has him. It’s the syndicate. They’ve been holding him since the beginning. Webb wasn’t protecting the club. He was protecting his son. That’s why he kept the evidence hidden.” Sorensen paused at the door. “And now that you have it, they’ll be coming for something you care about. Keep your people close, Mr. Okafor.”

The door clicked shut. James sat alone in the buzzing silence, the notarized statement cold in his hand. The board vote was in six hours. And Lockwood wasn’t just fighting to stay in power—he was fighting to keep the syndicate’s grip on the club secure.

But James was no longer fighting blind.

He pulled out the burner phone, typed a message to Sidra. *I have what we need. Notarized. See you at 7 AM.* Then he stood, flipped the collar of his coat up, and walked out into the cold morning, the weight of the document in his pocket pulling him forward.