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.

The smell of sterile antiseptic and the steady hum of heart monitors pulled me back toward consciousness. The pain was distant now, dulled by heavy intravenous narcotics, but my body felt anchored to the bed by sheer deadweight.

I opened my eyes. White ceiling tiles. Fluorescent lights dimmed to a soft amber glow.

"She's awake."

Patrick’s voice came from the corner of the room. He was sitting on a vinyl chair, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife, looking like a gargoyle on watch. Beside my bed, Dad was sitting in a low armchair, his eyes rimmed with red, his hand wrapped around mine.

"Dad?" My voice sounded like crushed gravel.

"I'm here, sweetheart." He stood up immediately, leaning over the rail. "Don't try to move. You went through a four-hour surgery. Dr. Vance put titanium rods through both tibias and rebuilt your right knee. He said you're going to walk again. It will take time, but you will walk."

Tears welled in my eyes. "He ruined me, Dad. Three years of work... three months of no pay... and he threw me out like garbage."

"He didn't ruin you," Dad said, his voice dropping into that deep, immovable resonance that had guided men through minefields. "He ruined himself. He just doesn't know how bad it is yet."

Patrick clicked his knife shut and stepped up to the edge of the bed. "Rafe and Isaac have been busy, Audrey. Your ex-boss wasn't just shorting your paychecks. He took out an eight-million-dollar private loan from an offshore cartel syndicate six months ago to cover his gambling debts in Macau. He's been skimming employee payroll to pay the monthly interest."

"The cartel?" I whispered, fear piercing through the fog of morphine. "Dad, those people kill without thinking—"

"Let them try," Dad said calmly. "The difference is, Graham owed them money. He owes us blood."

The door to the private room clicked open. A nurse walked in carrying fresh IV bags, followed closely by a uniformed state trooper. The trooper wasn't Sheriff Dixon; this was an officer from the state capital's major crimes bureau.

"Sergeant Major Bellamy?" the trooper asked, removing his hat. "The State Attorney General is on line one down at the nurses' station. He wants to know if you're ready to hand over the financial drive."

Dad glanced at me, then back at the trooper. "Tell him the price for the drive is simple. Graham doesn't get bail. Not under any circumstance. If he walks out of that holding cell on a bond, I handle this matter personally."

The trooper nodded without hesitation. "The Attorney General already anticipated that, sir. Graham was denied bail twenty minutes ago. Flight risk and danger to the public. But there’s another problem."

Dad's eyes narrowed. "Speak."