NO MERCY FOR MY DAUGHTER: A SOLDIER'S RETURN

The central terminal building was a two-story brick relic from the town's industrial golden age, now serving as the clandestine base of operations for Vance’s local operations. Outside, three black SUVs were parked with their engines idling, headlights cutting sharp beams through the swirling river fog.

Inside the upper office, Mark Vance had his ribs wrapped tightly in medical gauze. He stood over a mahogany desk, slamming his fist down in frustration as the radio fell dead silent. ""What do you mean, decommissioned?! Who authorized you to hire these incompetent clowns, Briggs?""

Briggs stood near the window, his service pistol drawn, his eyes darting nervously toward the fog-shrouded tracks. ""Miller is hunting us, Mark. You don't understand what those tier-one guys do when you take their families. They don't run away. They close the perimeter.""

""I have twenty men in this building!"" Vance roared, saliva spraying from his lips. ""He’s one disgraced sergeant without backup! The moment he steps through that door, turn him into hamburger!""

Suddenly, the floodlights illuminating the terminal yard went black.

The low hum of the industrial transformer station outside ceased, plunging the entire railyard into absolute, terrifying darkness. The idling SUVs were the only source of illumination, their high beams cutting through the gloom.

A heartbeat later, an explosion ripped through the hood of the lead SUV. David had placed a thermite canister directly over the engine block, igniting the fuel lines in a catastrophic flare of liquid fire. The vehicle detonated, sending a fireball roaring into the night sky and scattering the guards stationed around the perimeter.

Through the curtain of flame, David appeared.

Moving with terrifying economy of motion, David fired controlled two-round bursts from his carbine. Each shot found its mark through the glass and sheet metal of the remaining vehicles, dropping Vance's hired guns before they could acquire targets in the chaotic shadows. A guard on the terminal’s iron balcony opened up with a submachine gun, chewing through the gravel at David's feet. David did not dive for cover; he raised his rifle, tracked the muzzle flash through the fog, and put a single round through the shooter’s chest, sending the body tumbling over the railing to the gravel below.

David kicked the heavy timber front doors of the terminal open, stepping into the cavernous lower warehouse.

The air was heavy with the smell of engine grease, stale cigarettes, and burning diesel. At the far end of the warehouse, standing behind a wall of stacked shipping crates, six mercenaries stood waiting with weapons leveled.