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.

I looked at the oxygen tanks. Highly flammable. I loosened a valve, letting gas hiss into the room. I unplugged the incubator—it had a battery backup—and loaded it onto a rolling cart.

I rolled my son out the storm doors and hid the cart behind a thick hedge fifty yards away. Then I went back to the door, lit a road flare, and yelled.

“VICTOR!”

I tossed the flare into the gas-filled room and slammed the door.

BOOM.

The explosion blew the basement windows out and shook the foundation. Smoke poured from the vents. I ran back to the hedges, rocking the cart. “Just fireworks, Leo. Just fireworks.”

The front door of the mansion burst open. Victor and the remaining sons stumbled out, coughing, blinded by smoke. They thought the baby was burning.

I watched them from the tree line. I could have shot them all right then. But death was too easy.

I picked up Dominic’s phone. While they fought the fire, I accessed their offshore accounts. Dominic had all the passwords saved. Arrogance.

I transferred every cent—millions of dollars—to a charity for domestic violence victims. Then I forwarded the files on their illegal arms dealing to the FBI and the Washington Post.

“Checkmate,” I whispered.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The police were coming. Victor heard them too.

“We have to go!” Victor screamed. “The Feds will be here!”

They ran toward their SUVs. They were fleeing to their doomsday cabin in the mountains. I knew they would.