A cocky black belt filmed himself mocking a sixty-three-year-old's gray hair, completely oblivious to the military elite combat tattoo on the old man's arm.

Victor’s smile faded, replaced by the dead-eyed sneer of a man who was used to buying or breaking everything in his path.

"I didn't ask, Sergeant," Victor said softly. "You see, a man of your age has a lot of fragile things. A nice house. A quiet life. It would be a terrible shame if this lovely timber cabin burned to the foundation while you were sleeping."

Victor gestured with his chin toward the two men on the left. "Bring him down here. Let’s help him understand the economics of modern fighting."

The two men moved forward with practiced coordination. They weren't street brawlers; they moved like former private military contractors, shoulders squared, hands raised in ready low-guard positions, aiming to close the distance fast and subdue Thomas with overwhelming blunt force.

Tyler screamed, "Victor, stop! Don't do this!"

Thomas didn't scream. He didn't issue another warning.

As the first enforcer reached the bottom step of the porch, Thomas moved.

It was not sport. It was not the gentle tap he had delivered to Tyler at the community gym.

Thomas stepped off the porch edge, his combat boot descending not onto the wood, but directly onto the first enforcer's advancing knee joint with the full, unyielding weight of his descending body. A sickening *crack* tore through the quiet night air, followed by a choked howl of agony as the man’s leg bent violently backward at an unnatural angle.

Before the second man could draw the collapsible baton from his tactical belt, Thomas’s right elbow drove upward under the man's chin with devastating, compact torque. The impact sounded like an ax cleaving green timber. The man’s head snapped back, his teeth shattering as his consciousness detached instantly from his skull, sending him crashing face-first into the muddy gravel like an empty sack of grain.

In less than two seconds, two armed, trained mercenaries lay completely broken in the mud.

Thomas stood over them, his gray hair undisturbed by the violence, his knuckles wrapped tight, his breathing still perfectly calm.

He looked across the gravel straight at Victor Vancevic.