The Garrison was alive with laughter, smoke curling in the air, whiskey poured heavy in glasses. Arthur sat with his brothers, boots kicked up, a cigar between his fingers as the night carried on. Then the door swung open.

Silence.

Like a spell had been cast, every man turned to look. And there she was.

Lieutenant General of Spetsnaz Special Task Force.

Black high-waisted cargo pants, a compressed black crop top hugging her form, military jacket draped over her shoulders, her name and rank gleaming in bold letters. The sleek black-and-white sneakers barely made a sound as she strode inside, presence commanding, sharp eyes scanning the room like she owned it.

Arthur exhaled smoke slowly, blue eyes gleaming with something wicked as he leaned back in his chair, watching her like a predator sizing up another beast.

“Well, well… looks like Birmingham’s got a new sheriff,” he drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “Or should I say, a bloody war general?”