“I spent thirty years defending this country,” Arthur whispered, leaning down so his face was inches from Leo’s rapidly darkening one. The general’s voice was conversational, which made it infinitely more terrifying. “I have fought warlords. I have dismantled insurgencies. I have killed men who were ten times the man you pretend to be.”
Leo kicked his legs weakly, a high-pitched whistling sound escaping the crushing pressure on his throat.
“And you,” Arthur continued, his boot pressing a fraction of an inch deeper, “a weak, pathetic little boy who plays golf and bullies women… you thought you could torture my daughter in my own backyard? You thought you could kill my grandchild and strike my blood, and there would be no consequences?”
Arthur drew his left foot back slightly, shifting his weight. He was preparing to deliver a final, skull-shattering kick to the side of Leo’s head. A strike that would undoubtedly cause permanent brain damage, if not death. The General was preparing to execute the enemy.
“Dad.”
The voice was weak, raspy, and trembling.
“Dad. Stop.”
Arthur froze. The command to execute was overridden.