I was five thousand miles from home when a nurse called me sobbing and said, “Blake… they broke both of your wife’s legs.” Then a man took the phone from her, laughed, and whispered, “Come do something about it, soldier. My father owns the police.” Fourteen hours later, I landed on American soil—and two sheriff’s cruisers were already waiting for me.

The waiting room on the third floor of St. Jude’s was empty except for two men sitting in vinyl armchairs beneath a flickering fluorescent light. Both wore cheap suits that didn't quite hide the bulk of Glock holsters under their left arms. As Blake and his three teammates walked out of the corridor, the larger of the two detectives—a thick-necked brute with a jagged scar across his chin named Detective Vance (no relation to Jax)—stood up, blocking the exit.

"Captain Dean?" the detective sneer-smiled, flashing a gold shield for half a second. "Detective Miller, Henrico County PD. You're coming with us downtown. Resisting federal officers on airport tarmac is a felony, but assaulting local deputies—"

"You don't have jurisdiction in a federal-protected medical facility," Jax interrupted, stepping shoulder-to-shoulder with Blake. "And you definitely don't have the teeth for this fight, detective."

Detective Miller’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Jax, then at Reyes, who was casually leaning against the vending machine, blocking the secondary exit. The detective reached for his hip.

"I said—"

Before his fingers could wrap around the leather of his holster, Blake moved. It wasn't the slow, calculated motion of a man entering a debate; it was an explosive, blinding strike born of pure combat reflex.

Blake’s left hand shot forward, grabbing Detective Miller by the cheap silk tie and violently jerking him off balance. With his right hand, Blake swept the detective’s leading leg out from under him, slamming the heavy man into the vending machine with a metallic crunch that sent soda cans tumbling down the chute.

The second detective yelled, drawing his weapon, but before he could clear leather, Jax was already there. A single, brutal open-palm strike to the detective’s wrist sent the Glock clattering across the linoleum tile, followed by a knee to the midsection that folded the man double. Jax caught him by the back of his collar and drove his face down onto the armrest of the vinyl chair, pinning him there with a knee in his spine.

"Don't move," Jax whispered pleasantly into the groaning detective's ear. "Or I'll show you what a real interrogation looks like."

Blake stood over Detective Miller, who was gasping for air against the dented soda machine, clutching his bruised throat.

"You tell Sheriff Cole," Blake said, his voice dropping an octave, cold as arctic ice, "and you tell Cameron Voss, that if I see another county badge within five miles of this hospital, I won't just break legs. I'll dismantle every brick in the precinct."

Detective Miller coughed, spitting a streak of blood onto the shiny floor. His eyes were wide with genuine terror now—the kind of fear that only comes when a predator realizes he’s poked something far deadlier than himself.

"You're... you're dead," Miller choked out. "Richard Voss owns the state prosecutor. He owns the governor's office."

"Then he won't have any trouble finding me," Blake replied, stepping back.