As You Wish
The oppressive July heat hit Broderick “Brody” Harlo like a physical force as he stepped off the military transport at Fort Benning, Georgia. After three tours with the Army Rangers in the Middle East, he was finally home. His duffel bag felt light compared to the weight of everything he’d seen and done over the past four years.
He checked his phone for the first time since landing on U.S. soil, expecting a message from Melanie, his wife of twelve years, confirming she was on her way. Instead:
“Don’t bother coming.
The locks are changed. The kids don’t want you. It’s over.”
He stood motionless in the sweltering heat.
Fellow soldiers streamed past him toward their own homecoming celebrations—wives running into arms, kids waving homemade signs, parents crying into uniforms. The message burned into his retinas. Their last video call three weeks ago had seemed normal enough.
Distant, maybe. But nothing to suggest she would end their marriage by text as his boots touched American concrete. His thumbs hovered over the screen.
A dozen angry responses flashed through his mind. Instead, he typed two words. As you wish.
Anyone who knew Brody would recognize the quiet danger. During his time as a Ranger, he’d become known for calculated precision. When chaos erupted and other men panicked, Brody grew unnervingly calm.
“As you wish” was what he said before executing the most devastating operations with surgical efficiency. He made a single call. “Leona Fisk speaking.”
“It’s Brody Harlo.
I need your services immediately.”
“I thought you weren’t back until next week.”
“Plans changed.”
“For you? Absolutely. My office, two hours.”
He hailed a cab and directed it not to the suburban home outside Atlanta where his wife and children—Trevor, sixteen, and Amelia, fourteen—supposedly no longer wanted him, but to a glass-and-steel tower downtown, home to one of the most feared divorce attorneys in the state.
As the cab pulled away from Fort Benning, he allowed himself one moment of raw emotion. He squeezed his eyes shut as the betrayal washed over him—then, like he’d done countless times in combat, he compartmentalized. This was now a mission.
And Broderick Harlo never failed a mission. Leona Fisk’s office was polished surfaces and sharp edges: chrome, dark wood, expensive art. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Atlanta skyline—gleaming glass, interstate overpasses, and the distant glow of an American flag atop a corporate headquarters.
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