My boss broke both my legs for asking for unpaid wages, completely unaware my retired Special Forces dad and his entire unit were on their way.

Two patrol cruisers skidded into the lot, throwing gravel against the side of the warehouse. A bulky man with silver stars pinned to his collar stepped out, his hand resting conspicuously on his service holster. Sheriff Dixon took in the scene: Graham on the ground, three security guards face down with their hands zip-tied, and five older men standing around me in a defensive wedge.

"Step away from him! Hands on your heads, right now!" Dixon bellowed, drawing his sidearm.

Isaac didn't reach for a weapon. He simply walked toward Dixon, his posture completely relaxed, pulling a laminated black credential folder from his breast pocket. He held it open an inch from Dixon’s nose.

"Department of Defense, Joint Special Operations Liaison," Isaac said, his tone entirely casual. "Put the sidearm back in the holster, Sheriff, before I have the federal marshal’s office revoke your department's funding and your liberty."

Dixon froze. He squinted at the credentials, then at the compass tattoo on Isaac's forearm. His hand visibly shook. "This is county jurisdiction—"

"This is an active felony aggravated battery involving interstate labor fraud and attempted homicide," Isaac cut him off, stepping forward until Dixon was forced to take a step back. "You have thirty seconds to stand down your deputies and direct traffic for the medical trauma unit, or you will be arrested for obstruction."

Graham shrieked from the ground. "Dixon, arrest them! Look at my wrist! They broke my wrist!"

"Shut up, Graham!" Dixon barked, sweat suddenly pouring down his neck. He looked at the other men standing around me. He looked at my father. He clearly recognized that these were not ordinary civilians having a bar brawl. These were men who had dismantled insurgent cells with fewer resources than they had right now.

The ambulance roared into the lot, followed closely by two unmarked black Suburbans. Paramilitary tactical operators from the regional reserve stepped out of the Suburbans, rifles slung low, quickly taking control of the gates and sealing off the perimeter.

Paramedics sprinted toward me with a backboard and splints. "Audrey? Stay still. We're going to stabilize your legs."

As the EMTs cut away my pant legs, revealing the grotesque purple bruising and shattered bone protruding through skin, Dad stood over them, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched.

"Hang in there, baby," Dad whispered as they slid the board under me.

The shock was finally setting in. My vision tunneled into black edges. The last thing I heard before passing out was my father's voice addressing Rafe.

"Rafe. Crack Graham's personal server. I want every bank account, every dummy corporation, and every politician on his payroll burned to the ground before my daughter wakes up from surgery."