I never told my son-in-law that I was the most feared Drill Sergeant in Marine history. He forced my pregnant daughter to scrub the floors while he played video games. “Miss a spot and you don’t eat,” he sneered. I couldn’t take it anymore. I kicked the power cord, shutting off his game. He jumped up, furious. “You crazy old fool!” Before he could blink, I had him pinned against the wall by his throat, feet dangling off the floor. “Listen closely, maggot,” I growled. “Boot camp starts now.”

Derek had paused his game. He was pointing at a smudge near the baseboard—a tiny scuff mark from a shoe.

“I said clean, Sarah,” he sneered, looking at her with a mixture of boredom and cruelty. “Not spread dirt around. You want dinner? Earn it. Miss a spot and you don’t eat.”

Sarah stood there, holding the cold soda, tears silent on her face. She looked at the floor, then at the scrub brush sitting on the coffee table. She started to lower herself, her pregnant belly making the movement awkward and painful.

That was the moment the world stopped for Frank Vance.

The retired grandfather evaporated. The man who liked gardening and crossword puzzles ceased to exist. In his place stood Master Sergeant Vance, a man who had trained three generations of Recon Marines to kill without hesitation.

I didn’t run. Running is for panic. I moved with terrifying inevitability.

I walked past Sarah. I didn’t look at her. My eyes were locked on the target.

I reached the entertainment center. With one swift motion, I grabbed the power cord of the PlayStation.

SNAP.

I ripped it from the wall socket. The plastic casing cracked. The TV screen went black. The gunfire stopped.

Silence crashed into the room.