On Easter Sunday, my daughter called me sobbing, “Dad, please come get me.” My son-in-law laughed as his mother shoved me off the porch—“Go back to your lonely house.” I pushed inside… and found my daughter on the floor, bruised and bleeding while they hunted eggs. They thought I’d walk away—until I quietly made one call that would end everything.

The silence on the line stretched for another full second. Then, I heard a sharp, definitive, metallic click of a rifle chambering a round.

“Understood, Commander,” Ghost said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble of absolute loyalty. “We are fifteen minutes out. We will not leave a single brick intact, boss. Asset recovery and hostile neutralization are authorized. Get your daughter clear of the blast radius.”

Click.

The line went dead.

I slammed the truck into gear and peeled out of the gated community, heading east, toward the next county line. I was taking Lily to a private, secure medical facility run by a former Army field surgeon who owed me his life.

Behind me, in their luxurious, insulated mansion, Richard and Eleanor were still drinking expensive Scotch, laughing at the pathetic old man they had so easily dismissed.

They were completely, blissfully unaware that a pack of highly trained, incredibly dangerous wolves had just been unleashed from the shadows.

At the Vance estate, the local Police Chief, a fat, complacent man named O’Malley, was raising a crystal glass to toast Richard.