I returned from a Delta deployment and walked straight into the ICU. My wife lay there—so battered I barely recognized her. The doctor lowered his voice. “Thirty-one fractures. Severe blunt trauma. Repeated blows.” Outside her room, I saw them—her father and his seven sons—smiling like they’d just claimed a prize. The detective muttered, “It’s a family issue. Our hands are tied.” I studied the mark on her skull and answered calmly, “Perfect. Because I’m not law enforcement.” What followed would never see a courtroom.

The mission parameters shifted instantly.
Priority One: Secure the asset (my son).
Priority Two: Eliminate hostiles.

I moved to the basement access doors. I pried the lock and slipped inside. The basement was a fully equipped private medical clinic. And there, in the center, was an incubator.

Inside lay a tiny, wriggling baby boy. He had dark hair. My hair.

“I’m here, buddy,” I whispered, placing a gloved hand on the glass. “Dad’s here.”

I heard footsteps on the stairs.

“Check the levels,” Victor’s voice drifted down. “Dominic, check the generator.”

I hid behind a stack of oxygen tanks. Dominic burst into the room, flashlight sweeping. He walked over to the incubator and tapped on the glass hard.

“Little bastard,” he sneered.

That was it. I stepped out. “Don’t touch him.”

Dominic spun around, reaching for his gun. He was too slow. I grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.

“Shhh,” I whispered. “You’ll wake the baby.”

I squeezed. I crushed his windpipe—not enough to kill instantly, but enough to ensure he wouldn’t breathe without a tube ever again. He slumped to the floor. I took his gun and his phone.

I sent a text to the group chat from Dominic’s phone: Generator acting up. Send Evan.

Two minutes later, Evan came down. I neutralized him with a sleeper hold before he even saw me. I dragged them both into a supply closet.