"Marcus? What's going on, brother? I'm in the middle of a briefing at the Pentagon."

Sterling chuckled, crossing his arms and shaking his head in disbelief. "Who are you pretending to call, Cole? The President?"

Marcus ignored Sterling completely, keeping his dark eyes fixed on the state trooper as he spoke calmly into the phone.

"Jack, I've got an Officer Sterling from State Troop 4 standing in my shop bay. He's scuffing up the Governor's Knucklehead, threatening an illegal search, and talking about cuffing me for... existing."

The line went dead silent for two agonizing seconds. Then came a heavy, frustrated sigh.

"Sterling? Let me guess... mid-thirties, thinning hair, walks around with a chip on his shoulder because he failed SWAT tryouts twice?" The voice on the phone shifted instantly—losing its casual warmth and turning as razor-sharp as military steel. "Put the ignorant bastard on."

Sterling’s sneer faltered slightly, but he smirked and snatched the phone off the bench. "Listen here, comedian, I don't know who you think you are, but you're interfering with a state—"

"Shut your damn mouth, Sterling!" the phone roared with enough force to distort the speaker, making both troopers flinch. "This is General Jack 'The Hammer' Reynolds, Four-Star Commander of the 3rd Marine Expeditionary Force, and former National President of the Iron Eagles Motorcycle Club!"

Sterling’s blood ran cold. His jaw went slack, and the color drained from his face so fast he looked like he was about to pass out.

"You are standing in the shop of First Sergeant Marcus Cole—the man who crawled through active mortar fire in Fallujah to pull my burning ass out of a wrecked Humvee and took three rounds in the chest doing it!" General Reynolds barked, his voice echoing like thunder. "That shop was funded by a Federal Veterans Business Grant and supported by the Iron Eagles! If you don't step back, apologize, and get the hell out of his face in five seconds, I will personally call Governor Vance and your Superintendent to have your badge stripped and your pompous ass reassigned to guarding a toll booth in the arctic circle! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, OFFICER?!"

Young Officer Hayes immediately snapped into a rigid military attention stance, swallowing hard.

Sterling stood frozen, his eyes wide with absolute horror as the satellite phone trembled in his sweaty palm.

Instead, he slowly drew out a rugged, military-grade satellite phone. With a flick of his thumb, he dialed a speed-key, placed the rugged device flat on the workbench between them, and tapped the speaker button.

The silence that followed in the garage was deafening. The only sound left was the quiet, steady humming of the fluorescent lights overhead and the sound of Sterling’s heavy, panicked breathing.

Sterling stood frozen like a stone statue, his face completely drained of color. His hand, still holding the satellite phone, trembled so violently that the screen rattled against his wedding ring.

"T-General Reynolds..." Sterling stammered, his pompous, aggressive posture collapsing into absolute panic. "Sir... I—I had no idea..."

"You didn't care to ask," General Reynolds' voice growled through the speaker, ice-cold and unyielding. "Hand the phone back to First Sergeant Cole."

Sterling practically stumbled over his own boots as he scrambled forward. With both hands shaking, he gently, almost reverently, set the rugged phone back on the workbench, bowing his head in pure humiliation.