Hurt my wife, lose your life. （Or your ears.）
SIXTY-SEVEN
THE FOLLOWING MORNING
As the white van swerves off the street, the man jogging at a sedate pace yelps and backs into the chain-link fence.
When the front wheel clips the sidewalk and brakes to a halt a mere foot away from his legs, his snarl covers up his sudden fear. “You idiots, do you have any idea who I am?”
The back door to the van screeches on the rusty runner as I drag it open.
His eyes find mine, then, when he sees I’m wearing no mask, they bulge. A glance around reveals his security detail is nowhere to be found, just in time for my men to haul him into the back of the van with me.
Swallowing, he takes in my empty hands, the man behind me wielding a tire iron, and the wooden chair that has modified cuffs strapped around the armrests and feet.
“No, general, we have no idea whatsoever. You and I are going to have a talk.” I smile at the bastard who made my wife cry.
Who made her kill. Who thought he could steal her from my house without reprisals.
“About expectations and moving forward…” His shoulders drop in relief until Eoghan O’Donnelly slaps the tire iron against his palm. “…what my wife—”
“And our sister,” Brennan drawls.
“—will do for the Veronians...”