My daughter was lying in an ER with a concussion and bruised ribs when I walked into her boyfriend’s MMA gym and accused him of putting her there. Dustin laughed at the gray-haired father standing in front of him, until his coach recognized my name and suddenly realized the old man they had surrounded had spent fifteen years teaching Marines how to fight.

The two men behind Sal shifted their weight, their coats pulling tight against their chests. Concealed carry. Amateurs. They were showing off their hardware to intimidate a civilian.

"Sal," I said, my tone flat. "You're in a hospital room."

"I know where I am, Mr. Callahan," Sal said, stepping further into the room, ignoring Sarah's audible gasp. "I also know that my nephew is currently sitting in an urgent care clinic with a broken nose and a fractured cheekbone. He tells me an old man assaulted him in his own gym."

"Your nephew put my daughter in this bed," I replied. "He got off light."

Sal chuckled, shaking his head as if listening to a stubborn child. "Look, John... can I call you John? I respect a protective father. I really do. But you're stepping into deep water here. You run a little carpentry business. You fix roofs and build decks. You don't want to get involved with the kind of business my family operates."

"I know all about your business, Sal," I said. "The illegal gambling dens on 4th Street. The dock kickbacks. The money laundering through Miller's gym. I spent the last three weeks building a dossier on you."

Sal’s smile disappeared. The air in the hospital room grew razor-thin.

"Are you threatening me, Callahan?"

"No," I said, taking one step forward, forcing Sal's two bodyguards to tense up. "A threat is an emotional statement. I don't do emotion. I'm offering you a terms-of-engagement notice."

"Terms of engagement?" Sal scoffed, though his eyes narrowed.

"Your nephew stays away from Marcy. Permanently. You liquidate his interest in that gym, and you ensure he leaves this state by the end of the week," I said smoothly. "If he steps within a hundred yards of my family again, I won't go after him. I will tear down your entire network, piece by piece, until you're sitting in a federal penitentiary wondering how a carpenter ruined your life."

One of the bodyguards stepped forward, reaching under his coat. "You talking to Mr. Vance like that?"

Before the man could clear his holster, my hand shot out.

I clamped down on his wrist, twisting his forearm sharply outward while driving my knee directly into the inside of his thigh. The guard let out a choked gasp, dropping to one knee as his gun slipped from his fingers and landed with a dull thud on the linoleum floor.

I kicked the pistol under Marcy’s bed, keeping my eyes fixed directly on Sal Vance.

The second bodyguard reached for his waist, but Sal threw his hand up. "Stop!"

Sal was staring at me now, really looking at me—not at the gray beard or the dusty work boots, but at the absolute, terrifying absence of fear in my eyes.

"You're a crazy old bastard, aren't you?" Sal whispered.

"I'm a father," I corrected him. "And you have until midnight tomorrow to get Dustin out of this town."

Sal slowly backed toward the door, gesturing for his kneeling bodyguard to get up. The man scrambled to his feet, clutching his twisted wrist, red-faced and terrified.