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.”

“Little bastard,” he sneered.

That was it. I stepped out. “Don’t touch him.”

Dominic spun around, reaching for his gun. He was too slow. I grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.

“Shhh,” I whispered. “You’ll wake the baby.”

I squeezed. I crushed his windpipe—not enough to kill instantly, but enough to ensure he wouldn’t breathe without a tube ever again. He slumped to the floor. I took his gun and his phone.

I sent a text to the group chat from Dominic’s phone: Generator acting up. Send Evan.

Two minutes later, Evan came down. I neutralized him with a sleeper hold before he even saw me. I dragged them both into a supply closet.

I looked at the oxygen tanks. Highly flammable. I loosened a valve, letting gas hiss into the room. I unplugged the incubator—it had a battery backup—and loaded it onto a rolling cart.