Page 130 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

But Granger doesn't stop.

Can't stop.

Or won't.

He kicks backward, trying to break Logan's stance. His elbow cracks against Logan's already bleeding ribs. Any normal man would have loosened their grip.

Logan just tightens his.

The team moves in perfect sync—Caleb and Ryker grab Granger's legs while Knox secures his arms.

Four against one, but Granger fights like a demon. His face contorts with rage and desperation as he tries to break free.

I can barely watch what happens next.

The sound of breaking bones splits the air.

Clinical. Efficient. Terrible.

Granger's struggles weaken. Foam forms at the corners of his mouth, his face losing color. His eyes find mine one last time—and in them, I see something that will haunt me.

Not hatred.

Not fear.

Just... emptiness.

Then he goes still.

Logan holds the chokehold for ten more seconds, making absolutely sure. When he finally releases his grip, Granger slumps to the floor like a puppet with cut strings. Logan kneels, checking for a pulse with blood-slicked fingers.

Nothing.

The silence returns, but different now.

Heavy with the weight of what just happened. What they just did.

Logan stands slowly, every movement betraying exhaustion and pain. The others release their holds on Granger's lifeless form, each face marked with grim acceptance.

They've done what needed to be done.

But the cost...

They gather around their fallen brother—because that's what he was, before everything else. Before the betrayal, before the blood. Before me.

The prayer they whisper is barely audible, but it carries weight. Years of shared battles. Lost brothers. Impossible choices.

Logan's hands shake slightly as he removes Granger's dog tags. The metal catches the dim light as he slips them into his pocket—not a trophy.

A memorial.

I step forward before I realize I'm moving. Need to see for myself. Need to know it's really over.

Logan's eyes find mine across Granger's body.

In them, I see everything he can't say. Relief wars with regret. Victory tastes like ash.

He crosses to me in three long strides, hands ghosting over my arms, my face, checking for injuries. His touch is gentle despite the violence still fresh on his skin.