I came home from a Delta deployment to find my wife in the ICU. Her face… I couldn’t recognize her. The doctor whispered, “Thirty-one fractures. Blunt force trauma. Repeated strikes.” Then I saw them outside her room—her father and his seven sons—smiling like they’d just won something. The detective said, “It’s a family matter. The police can’t touch them.” I looked at the hammer print on her skull and replied, “Good. Because I’m not the police.” “What happened to them… no court could ever judge.”

“Have a good night,” the sleepy teenager at the register mumbled.

“It’s going to be a long one,” I said.

I drove back toward the city. I knew where the Wolf Pack would be on a Friday night. After a big win—and to them, silencing Tessa was a win—they always went to the same place: The Velvet Lounge, a high-end private club downtown that Victor owned.

I parked my truck two blocks away in the shadows of an alley and waited.

At 02:45, the door opened. Laughter spilled out onto the street. Dominic and Grant walked out first, loud and stumbling. Then came the others. They were high on adrenaline and expensive liquor. But one was trailing behind.

Mason.

He wasn’t laughing. He looked sick. He waved off the offer of a ride in the limo.

“I’m going to walk a bit, clear my head,” I heard him say.