My daughter whispered, “Dad, help,” and the line went dead. I drove at 100 mph to her in-laws’ mansion. My son-in-law blocked the porch, gripping a baseball bat, sneering, “This is a private family matter. Your daughter needed discipline.”

Humiliation was only the first phase. The second phase was survival.

By midnight on Friday, the Rojas Cartel had discovered their money was missing, and worse, that it had been funneled into DEA accounts. Cartels do not forgive, and they do not ask for explanations.

I was sitting on a wooded ridge three hundred yards overlooking the Vance estate. Cross was beside me, looking through the thermal scope of his sniper rifle.

"Commander," Cross whispered. "We have multiple bogeys breaching the perimeter. Two black Suburbans. Ten heavily armed hitters. They’re moving tactical. Suppressed weapons. They aren't here to talk."

Inside the mansion, Marcus and Beatrice were frantically packing designer suitcases, trying to flee the country. They had no idea death was already walking across their lawn.

"Do we let the cartel handle the trash, Boss?" Cross asked, his finger resting outside the trigger guard.

"No," I said, pulling my night-vision goggles over my eyes and racking the bolt of my suppressed carbine. "If the cartel kills them, they become victims. I want them to live long enough to face a federal judge and spend the rest of their lives in a concrete box. I'm going in."

I moved down the ridge like a shadow. This was my element. The dark, the woods, the silence.

I intercepted the first cartel hit team near the pool house. Four men, armed with MAC-10 submachine guns. I didn't give them a chance to breathe. I dropped from the roof of the pool house, neutralizing the trailing two men with dual strikes from my karambit blade before they could even turn around.

The lead two spun around, raising their weapons, but I had already drawn my sidearm. Pfft. Pfft. Two suppressed shots, perfectly placed. They hit the deck.

"Cross, give me overwatch," I whispered into my comms.