The doctor said thirty-one fractures. Thirty-one hammer blows to my wife's body while I was deployed. I stood in that ICU hallway with rage burning through every cell, and then I saw the men who did it SMILING at me like it was entertainment. One of them called me a "government dog." He forgot what attack dogs are trained to do.

The alley behind The Vault was slick with greasy autumn rain. Steam rose from the industrial sewer grates, creating a thick white fog that smelled of stale beer and garbage.

Two men in leather jackets stood under the flickering yellow bulb of the rear entrance, passing a vape pen back and forth. One was tall and gangly; the other was built like a fire hydrant with a thick neck and a deep, guttural laugh.

I stepped out of the shadow of a dumpster fifteen feet away. I wasn't wearing tactical gear. I wore dark jeans, a plain black hoodie, and heavy work boots.

"Hey! Alley’s closed, buddy," the fire-hydrant enforcer grunted, reaching into his jacket for a leather-wrapped blackjack. "Turn around and—"

I didn't let him finish the sentence.

I closed the distance in two broad strides. My left hand caught his wrist, forcing it upward while my right palm struck his solar plexus with full body weight behind it. The air erupted from his lungs in a wheezing gasp. Before he could fall, I grabbed the back of his collar and slammed his forehead directly into the brick wall behind him. He went limp instantly, dropping into the mud like a sack of wet flour.

The gangly one panicked, dropping his vape and reaching for his waistband.

I swept his front foot with my heel, throwing him completely off balance, and caught him by the throat as he fell. I slammed him back-first against the heavy steel door, squeezing the carotid artery on the side of his neck until his eyes rolled into his head. Five seconds later, he slumped unconscious beside his partner.

I reached down, took the keycard from the gangly man’s belt, and swiped it through the electronic lock on the door.

A green light flashed. The heavy steel door unlatched with a quiet click.

Inside, The Vault smelled of ozone, sweet tobacco, and expensive bourbon. Red neon lights bathed the exposed brick walls, illuminating line after line of vintage arcade cabinets, plush leather sofas, and a marble wet bar loaded with top-shelf liquor.

Mason Wolfe was sitting on a high stool at the bar, a half-empty bottle of thousand-dollar scotch in his left hand and a trembling tumbler in his right. The room was deathly quiet except for the hum of a neon sign shaped like a skull.

When the heavy steel door clicked shut behind me, Mason didn't even look up at first.

"I told you guys to stay outside," Mason muttered, his voice slurred with liquor. "If my dad finds out I'm drinking here again, he's going to—"

"Your dad isn't here, Mason," I said softly.

The glass tumbler slipped from Mason's hand. It shattered against the marble floor, splashing amber liquid over his three-hundred-dollar sneakers.

Mason spun around on his stool, his face turning the color of curdled milk. He tried to scramble backward, hitting the back bar so hard that three crystal decanters fell and shattered behind him.

"You... you..." Mason stammered, pointing a shaking finger at me. "How did you get in here?! Security! Dominic!"

"Your security is sleeping in the rain," I said, walking slowly toward the bar. I pulled out a stool ten feet away, pulled it back, and sat down. I rested my forearms on the marble counter, watching him with calm, vacant eyes. "And Dominic is currently sitting in his father's mansion, drinking wine and convincing himself that I'm just a stupid soldier who doesn't know how the world works."

"I... I have a gun!" Mason yelled, reaching frantically beneath the bar.

I didn't move. I didn't even reach for my belt.

"You don't have a gun, Mason," I said flatly. "Your father doesn't trust you with firearms because you shot yourself in the foot with an unregistered Glock when you were nineteen. He made Dominic take away your carry permit. Isn't that right?"

Mason's hand froze beneath the counter. A fresh wave of cold sweat broke across his forehead, running down into his collar.

"What do you want?" he squeaked, his voice cracking like a child's. "Money? I can give you money! I have two hundred thousand in a private account! I can transfer it right now! Just... just don't hit me!"

I looked down at the marble counter. "Thirty-one fractures, Mason."

Mason flinched as if I had thrown a blade at his chest.

"I didn't do it!" he screamed, his hands flying up to cover his face. "I swear to God, Jack! I didn't hit her! I was just... I was just driving the car! I stayed in the vehicle!"

"Who went inside?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Dominic!" Mason sobbed, tears cutting clean streaks through the dust on his cheeks. "Dominic and Tristan! They said... they said they were just going to mess up the gym equipment! They said they were going to burn her books and throw paint on the mirrors to make her leave!"

"And then?"

"She... she was working late," Mason blabbered, completely broken. He didn't even try to hide it now. The terror of facing a man who had walked through an army of security guards had utterly destroyed his resolve. "She was in the back office! She heard them! She came out with a wooden staff and hit Tristan across the face! She broke his nose!"

My chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic motion. "And Dominic?"

"Dominic got angry," Mason whispered, staring at his trembling hands. "He pulled out a heavy steel construction hammer from his coat. He said... he said nobody hits a Wolfe and walks away. Tristan held her arms behind her back... and Dominic... Dominic..."

Mason covered his ears, sinking down until his knees hit the glass-covered floor.

"I heard her screaming from the car," Mason sobbed. "I told them to stop! I begged them to stop, Jack! I swear I did! But Dominic kept laughing... he said it was fun... he said she needed to learn her place..."

I closed my eyes for three seconds. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I saw Tessa's smile—the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed at my terrible jokes, the way her hand felt warm and strong in mine when we walked through the autumn park. And then I saw her lying in that sterile ICU bed, wired to machine after machine, her body shattered into thirty-one pieces.

When I opened my eyes, the world looked extraordinarily clear.

I stood up from the stool.

Mason cowered on the floor, shaking violently, waiting for the fist to descend.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the small burner phone, and tossed it into the puddle of scotch beside his knee.

"That phone has a direct line to my encrypted server," I told him. "In forty-eight hours, I am going to tear down your father's empire. Every dock, every illegal den, every shell corporation. If you want to survive what's coming, Mason, you are going to call me when Dominic leaves the house tomorrow night."