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 first attacker moved with tactical precision, raising a submachine gun fitted with a barrel suppressor. But before his finger could squeeze the trigger, the ceiling tile directly above him shattered.

Isaac dropped down like an avenging ghost, landing his combat boots directly onto the man's shoulders, driving him into the linoleum with skull-cracking force. In the same fluid heartbeat, Isaac rolled, drew a combat blade, and slashed the tendons behind the second attacker's knees. The man collapsed with a howl of agony, dropping his weapon.

From the opposite end of the corridor, the heavy fire exit banged open. Rafe and Leonard advanced shoulder to shoulder. They moved like a wall of living iron. Rafe caught the third mercenary by the throat, slamming him against the wall so violently that the drywall buckled and crumbled.

The team leader, realization dawning too late that they had walked into an ambush designed by the best combat operators the military had produced in four decades, spun to flee toward the elevator.

He didn't make it two paces.

Dad intercepted him. A devastating palm strike to the man's sternum drove all the air from his lungs. The mercenary staggered backward, gasping, trying to draw a combat knife from his chest rig. Dad caught his wrist, snapped it cleanly outward with an audible pop, and drove a savage knee directly into the man's ribs. The sound of cracking bone filled the quiet ward.

The mercenary leader collapsed to his knees, vomiting blood, staring up at Dad in pure terror.

"Who hired you?" Dad asked, looking down without an ounce of breathlessness.

"Marcus... Marcus Vance," the man wheezed, clutching his shattered ribs. "Graham's... Graham's primary financier in Chicago..."

"Call him," Dad said, pulling the mercenary's satellite phone from his tactical vest and dropping it onto the floor in front of him. "Call him right now. Put it on speaker."

The trembling mercenary dialed with broken fingers. After two rings, an arrogant, smooth voice answered over the speaker.

*"Is it handled? Is the girl dead?"*

Dad reached down, picked up the phone, and brought it to his lips. "Mr. Vance."

A dead silence fell on the other end of the line. *"Who the hell is this?"*

"My name is Thomas Bellamy. Your mercenary team failed. Your asset, Graham, is in county lockup facing forty years without parole. And you have twelve hours to liquidate all of Audrey Bellamy's stolen wages—plus three million dollars in restitution for the warehouse workers—into the court trustee account."

*"Are you threatening me, old man? Do you know who I am?"* Vance hissed.

"I know what you are," Dad said coldly. "You're a man who thinks wealth makes him bulletproof. You have until eight o'clock tomorrow morning. If the transfer isn't complete, my unit won't call the police. We will come to your penthouse in Chicago. And I promise you, Vance... you don't have enough men in this country to stop us."

Dad crushed the satellite phone under the heel of his boot, grinding it into plastic dust.