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.”

I rolled my son out the storm doors and hid the cart behind a thick hedge fifty yards away. Then I went back to the  door, lit a road flare, and yelled.

“VICTOR!”

I tossed the flare into the gas-filled room and slammed the door.

BOOM.

The explosion blew the basement windows out and shook the foundation. Smoke poured from the vents. I ran back to the hedges, rocking the cart. “Just fireworks, Leo. Just fireworks.”

The front door of the mansion burst open. Victor and the remaining sons stumbled out, coughing, blinded by smoke. They thought the baby was burning.

I watched them from the tree line. I could have shot them all right then. But death was too easy.

I picked up Dominic’s phone. While they fought the fire, I accessed their offshore accounts. Dominic had all the passwords saved. Arrogance.

I transferred every cent—millions of dollars—to a charity for domestic violence victims. Then I forwarded the files on their illegal arms dealing to the FBI and the Washington Post.