A 210-pound black belt choked a woman unconscious after she tapped, completely unaware her brother was Special Forces.

Inside the house, the air was still warm and smelled of lavender and the herbal tea Cole had brewed for Sarah before she slept.

Cole walked down the hallway, his footsteps silent, and pushed open the door to the guest bedroom. Sarah was sitting upright in the bed, the blankets pulled up to her chest, her eyes wide and alert in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

She had heard the commotion, faint as it had been.

"Cole?" her raspy voice whispered.

Cole stepped into the room, his demeanor instantly shifting from the cold detachment of the hunter to the steady, reassuring presence of an older brother. He sat on the edge of the mattress, looking at her carefully.

"Two scouts," Cole said, keeping his tone entirely conversational. "Marcus Vance sent them to find the house."

Sarah’s breath hitched, her hand flying to her bruised throat. "They... they know where we are?"

"They knew," Cole corrected. "They don't anymore. They’re currently walking to Dillon, South Carolina, and they won't be coming back."

"Cole, we have to call the police," she urged, tears welling in her eyes, her voice tight with terror. "Marcus has people, Cole. He’s crazy. He’s not like the martial artists you fought on base. He’s a criminal. He doesn't care about rules or honor or—"

"Sarah," Cole interrupted gently, placing his hand over hers. His palm was warm, solid, and steady. "The police take forty minutes to respond out here. Then they take a report. Then they ask Marcus questions. Then Marcus hires a lawyer, posts bail, and comes back when the sun goes down."

He squeezed her hand.

"I spent fourteen years fighting men who made Marcus Vance look like an angry toddler," Cole said. "Men who laid roadside bombs, men who held mountain valleys with heavy machine guns, men who cut off heads on video. Marcus Vance is a gym bully with a criminal record and an inflated sense of importance because he beat up drunk civilians in bars."

Sarah looked at him, searching his face. She saw no fear there. She saw no bravado, no posturing, no adrenaline. She saw only the terrifying, granite-like certainty that had kept him alive across four combat tours.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I’m moving you to Miller’s house on-post," Cole said. "Ray has an armed gate, three German shepherds, and two active-duty sergeants staying in his guest quarters. You will be completely safe there."

"And you?"

Cole stood up. He reached into his pocket, retrieved his truck keys, and placed them on the nightstand beside her medicine.