My wife had 27 broken bones, a fractured skull, and barely survived—but when my billionaire mother-in-law told me I was just a disposable soldier, she had no idea who she had just declared war on...

"Detonator!" Bishop roared, diving behind an overturned steel credenza.

The lower hull of the yacht groaned as primary explosive charges detonated deep in the engine room below water level. Victoria wasn’t trying to escape with the yacht—she was scuttling the entire ship to drown her buyers, her guards, and us along with the evidence.

Water began gushing violently from the lower access stairs, the entire 300-foot vessel listing hard to the starboard side.

Victoria turned on her heel and sprinted toward the private helipad on the forward bow.

"Bishop! Evacuate the civilians and secure the data drives!" I ordered, sprinting through the flooding salon in pursuit of Victoria.

"Alexander, she’s heading for the bird!" Bishop yelled, coughing through the rising toxic fumes.

I burst through the forward blast doors onto the soaking bow. The cold Atlantic spray whipped across my face as rain poured from the heavens. The yacht’s nose was rising into the air as the stern sank into the icy depths.

On the helipad, the rotors of a private Eurocopter were already spinning to life, whipping the sea spray into blinding sheets of rain.

Victoria stood near the open cabin door, holding a submachine gun. When she saw me clear the deck, she raised the muzzle and emptied the magazine toward me.

Bullets sparked wildly against the steel deck plating. I dove behind the anchor winch, feeling the heat of the rounds ripping past my face. When her bolt clicked empty, I broke cover, charging across the slick, tilting deck.

I slammed into her before she could reload, knocking the weapon from her hands. We tumbled across the rain-slicked helipad, coming to a halt against the safety netting hanging over the churning black ocean forty feet below.

Victoria was fast, trained in the brutal close-quarters techniques of the foreign academy. She drew a ceramic push-dagger from her boot, slashing violently across my chest, slicing through the outer fabric of my tactical vest.

I trapped her wrist, twisting it until the ceramic blade fell into the ocean.

"You killed my mother!" she hissed, blood dripping from her split lip, her gray eyes burning with venomous hatred.

"Your mother killed herself trying to destroy my wife," I snarled, pinning her against the safety cables as the ship groans beneath another internal explosion. "And you’re going to spend the rest of your life answering for every drop of blood she spilled."

Suddenly, the helicopter pilot drew a sidearm from the cockpit window, aiming straight at the back of my head.

*BANG.*

A single shot rang out from behind me.

The pilot slumped over the flight controls, the helicopter engine whining out of control as it tilted sideways and tumbled off the edge of the helipad, crashing into the ocean in a ball of flame.

I turned around.

Standing on the tilted deck, soaked to the skin in a heavy tactical raincoat, holding my backup .45 caliber pistol with both hands, was Rosalie.