After spending $110,000 supporting my family, I returned from a 21-day Navy mission to find my father giving my $4 million Lake Tahoe villa to my sister—but one message from my attorney was about to turn their champagne celebration into a nightmare.

The mercenaries fired the instant I cleared the bulkhead.

I dove forward, rolling across the grating beneath the spray of high-velocity rounds. The bullets chewed through high-voltage cables above me, releasing showers of brilliant blue electrical arcs that illuminated the narrow corridor in strobing flashes.

Coming out of the roll, I snapped my rifle up and squeezed the trigger twice. The lead operative collapsed backward with a hole through his visor.

The remaining two guards split up, attempting to flank me from both sides of the catwalk. I bounded to my feet, using a steel structural support beam for cover. I swung around the left side, slamming the butt of my carbine into the second guard's throat before he could align his weapon. He choked, dropping to his knees, and I seized his tactical harness, hurling him over the safety rail into the humming cooling pumps forty feet below.

The third guard leveled his weapon at my flank, but before he could fire, a heavy steel pipe struck the back of his helmet.

It wasn't enough to drop him, but the sudden blow broke his aim. The guard stumbled, turning furiously toward Clara, who stood there shaking, clutching a severed piece of hydraulic conduit she had picked up from the floor.

That fraction of a second was all I needed.

I lunged forward, closed the distance, and drove my tactical blade up into the gap beneath his tactical vest. The guard stiffened, let out a shuddering breath, and went limp in my grip. I lowered his body silently to the deck.

I looked at Clara. Her chest was heaving, her knuckles white around the metal pipe.

"Not bad," I muttered, wiping sweat and blood from my brow. "Keep that pipe. You might need it again."