After seven months serving overseas with the Marines, I returned home two days ahead of schedule, hoping to surprise my wife.

The old cold storage facility on Dock Street rose out of the river fog like a rusted iron carcass.

Thirty years ago, it had processed commercial seafood; now, under Marcus Vance’s shell corporations, it served as an unmonitored transfer depot for contraband, dirty cash, and bodies that needed to disappear into the Delaware River.

The rain beat down in sheets, drumming against the corrugated tin roofs of the surrounding abandoned warehouses.

Frank parked the van three hundred yards away, shielded behind a mountain of rusted shipping containers.

"Sophia's vitals are stable," Frank said, checking the wireless monitor linked to the cot in the rear. "She's sleeping. The painkillers are holding. But we have twenty minutes before Henderson tracks this van's plates through the city traffic grid."

I looked back at Sophia. She looked so fragile beneath the dark military blankets, but her breathing was deep, steady, and alive.

I leaned over and kissed her forehead. "I'll be right back."

I turned to Richard. "Stay in this van. If you touch that door handle, Frank’s remote kill-switch locks you inside and triggers a police beacon. You sit here, and you watch what your greed built."

Richard shrank back into the corner of the seat, weeping silently, utterly broken.

I took the suppressed tactical rifle Frank handed me, checked the night-vision optic, and slid four extra magazines into my combat harness.

"Rules of engagement?" Frank asked quietly.

"There are no rules of engagement," I said. "They tried to murder my wife."

I moved through the freezing downpour like a shadow.

Seven months of counter-insurgency operations in the mountains had stripped away any hesitation. The perimeter of the meatpacking plant was secured by two private security contractors wearing civilian tactical gear.

They were standing beneath an awning, smoking, their rifles slung lazily across their chests.

I closed the distance using the rhythmic clatter of the rain on the tin roof to mask my footsteps.

When I was five feet away, I struck.

I grabbed the first guard from behind, locking his throat in a sleeper hold while driving my combat blade through the nerve junction of his shoulder. He went limp without a sound. Before the second guard could drop his cigarette, I stepped forward and drove the butt of my rifle into his jaw.

He crashed into the brick wall, dazed.

I pinned him against the wet brick with my forearm, the muzzle of my rifle pressed under his chin. "Where is the old man?"

"Second... second floor," the guard sputtered, blood pouring from his split lip. "In the meat locker... Brock’s working on him..."

I struck him once behind the ear, rendering him unconscious, dragged both men behind a row of industrial dumpsters, and stepped through the facility’s side access door.

The interior smelled of ancient ammonia, brine, and copper.

Faint yellow work lights hung from rusted chains high above the processing floor. Overhead, iron rails once used for carrying beef carcasses stretched into the darkness like an executioner’s gallows.

From the far end of the catwalk on the second floor, a scream echoed through the hollow building.

Samuel.

I climbed the rusted iron stairs, keeping my weight on the outer stringers to avoid squeaking steps.

At the end of the catwalk, a heavy insulated freezer door hung half-open. Yellow light spilled out onto the wet steel grating.

I reached the threshold and looked inside.

Samuel was tied to a heavy wooden chair, his face bruised and swollen, his bare feet blue from the freezing temperature of the locker.

Standing over him was a massive man—six-foot-four, built like a tank, with a shaved head and a scarred neck. Brock. In his hand was a heavy crowbar, its tip stained with fresh blood.

"I’m gonna ask you one more time, old man," Brock rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "Who did you give the bracelet to? Who did you talk to at that hospital?"

Samuel spat blood onto Brock’s expensive leather boots.

"A Marine," Samuel wheezed, a bloody smile spreading across his cracked lips. "And you're already dead... you just don't know it yet."

Brock sneered, raising the crowbar. "Marines die just like everybody else."