I looked at every commander standing before me.
“Vasquez touched my family.”
My eyes hardened. “Tonight — we dismantle everything that protects him.”
They responded in unison.
“Yes, sir.”
I climbed into the lead vehicle.
Doors slammed shut.
Engines roared to life.
The convoy pulled out of the airstrip — disappearing into the dark streets of California.
War had arrived.
And I intended to end it.
On the way, my phone rang.
One of my men from the estate.
“Boss... Petros is here — bound. We haven’t touched him. Not unless you give the order.”
“I’m on my way.”
I ended the call and immediately ordered the convoys to change course — heading straight for the estate.
When we arrived, the gates were still mangled from whatever force had broken through.
Twisted iron hung at awkward angles.
My convoy stopped at staggered positions around the perimeter.
Immediately, my men moved.
Sniper teams split off toward the surrounding ridges.
Two climbed the rooftops of adjacent structures.
Drones lifted into the night air within seconds — quiet rotors humming as infrared feeds streamed directly to my tablet.
I stepped out of the lead SUV.
Weapon drawn.
Safety off.
I entered the house alone first.
Not because I was reckless — but because leadership sometimes required presence before command.
The front doors were already destroyed.
The metallic smell of violence hung heavy in the air.
