I sat back down and made one call.

I didn’t dial emergency services first, because I needed eyes on the ground faster than a dispatcher could give me.

I called Jackson Lynch, my former special operations chief — the man who’d pulled my bleeding body out of a burning vehicle overseas eight years earlier.

In a decade of knowing him, he had never once failed to pick up before the third ring.

“What’s the situation, Carroll?”

“My daughter is being assaulted at my residence right now,” I said, letting the precision come back to cover the panic underneath it. “Four adults involved.