Garvin’s hand hovered near his radio. “Sir, I’m gonna ask one more time.”

“You can ask all day,” Solomon said, voice dropping. “I’m not moving.”

The guards pressed. “Maybe you’d be more comfortable in the back,” Malley tried, but the words weren’t about comfort—they were about something older, quieter, and more insidious.

Solomon’s silence was his answer. But the standoff was about to shift.

From the far end of the gym, six men entered. They wore no uniforms, but their posture and presence spoke volumes. They moved separately, taking up positions around the room, but it was clear to anyone watching closely—they were together. They watched, waited, and stood ready.

Solomon didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He knew these men—brothers forged in the crucible of war, men who owed their lives to him, and vice versa. Navy SEALs, each one. Men who had seen him pull comrades from burning vehicles under gunfire in Kandahar. Men who never forgot a debt.