Saintess's Worthless Husband Turned Dragon Commander novel Chapter 71

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CHAPTER 71

Aaron Jackson sat in the back of the Mercedes SUV, phone pressed to his ear, his voice carrying professional menace. “Mr. Stanislaus Potter? I believe I have something of yours.”

The voice on the other end crackled with barely controlled rage. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

“Aaron Jackson. And I’m calling about your son, Quamaine. The one currently in my possession with two broken legs and a shattered ego.”

Silence. Then: “If you’ve harmed him-”

“I haven’t harmed him nearly as much as he deserves,” Aaron interrupted pleasantly. “But we can discuss his condition after we talk about price. Three hundred million dollars. Cash. For his safe return.”

“THREE HUNDRED MILLION?” Stanislaus’s roar was audible even to Marcus sitting in the front passenger seat. That’s ROBBERY!”

“No, that’s ransom,” Aaron corrected. “Robbery would be if I just took him. This way, you get your disappointing heir back relatively intact. Well, mostly intact. The legs might need physical therapy.”

“I’ll have you KILLED for this!”

“Many have tried,” Aaron said cheerfully. “All have failed. Now, do you want your son back or not?”

A long pause filled with barely suppressed fury. “Where?”

“Old cement factory on Route 7, east side of the city. Abandoned for years, perfect for private transactions. Bring the money. Come alone. Any tricks, and Quamaine learns what it’s like to lose more than just his ability to walk.”

“You’re a dead man, Jackson,” Stanislaus promised.

“So people keep telling me. Three hundred million. Two hours. Don’t be late.” Aaron hung up, smiling. “He’ll pay.

11

Dom Martinez, driving, glanced in the rearview mirror. “Boss, you really think Potter will come alone?”

“Of course not,” Aaron replied. “He’ll bring an army. Which is why we’re bringing Marcus.”

Marcus, who’d been watching Grayson City’s streets roll by, turned slightly. “The cement factory is exposed. Multiple entry points. Easy to surround.”

“Which is why we’re arriving early,” Aaron said. “Set up our own positions. Let Potter think he has the advantage, then-”

The SUV lurched to a sudden stop.

Four figures stood in the middle of the road, blocking their path. All wore pristine white martial arts uniforms, the kind that marked serious practitioners rather than recreational students. Each carried themselves with the casual confidence of men who’d killed before and expected to kill again.

“Tyler King’s people,” Dom muttered, recognizing the uniforms from intelligence reports. “Dominating Martial Arts Hall. Elite fighters.”

The lead figure-a man in his forties with a scarred face and cold eyes-approached the SUV slowly. His three companions spread out, flanking the vehicle, cutting off escape routes.

Aaron stepped out first, his hand near his concealed weapon. “Gentlemen. You’re in our way.”

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“Aaron Jackson,” the lead fighter said, his voice carrying decades of training. “Murderer of Bruno ‘Black’ King. Master Tyler sends his regards.”

“Bruno King was a thug who attacked the wrong people,” Aaron replied calmly. “He got what he earned.”

“He got EXECUTED!” The fighter’s voice rose. “Killed on your orders! And now we’ve come to collect blood debt!”

“Four of you,” Aaron observed. “Against three of us. You like those odds?”

“We don’t need odds,” another fighter said. “We’re Black Belt Level 5, each of us. Thirty years combined training. You’re street trash playing at martial arts.”

Dom stepped out on the other side, his hand moving to his weapon. “Boss, these guys are serious. Real cultivation techniques. Not like the thugs we usually deal with.”

The four fighters moved as one, their coordination perfect. The lead instructor lunged at Aaron with a technique called Iron Mountain Strike-palm driving forward with enough force to shatter ribs and collapse lungs.

Aaron blocked, but the impact sent him stumbling backward. “Okay, you’re better than average—”

The second fighter was already on Dom, a flying kick that forced the enforcer to dodge desperately. “Boss! These bastards are FAST!”

Marcus opened his door calmly and stepped out.

The lead instructor’s attention shifted. “You must be Marcus Steel. The one who beat Quamaine Potter. Tyler King sends special regards for you-”

His words cut off as Marcus’s hand shot out faster than the eye could track, closing around the instructor’s wrist. The fighter tried to pull away, his cultivation energy flaring—

CRACK!

The sound of shattering bone echoed across the empty street. The instructor’s wrist bent at an unnatural angle, broken completely by Marcus’s casual grip.

Then Marcus moved.

His palm drove into the instructor’s chest with dragon power fully unleashed-ancient energy that made cultivation techniques look like children playing with toys. The impact was devastating. The instructor’s sternum collapsed. His heart stopped. His eyes went wide with shock and disbelief.

He was dead before his body hit the pavement.

The remaining three fighters froze, staring at their fallen leader, professional assessment warring with survival instinct. They’d just watched someone kill their strongest member in two moves.

“What… what kind of technique…” one breathed.

“Not a technique,” Marcus said calmly, his dragon aura now visible to those with cultivator sight-a shimmer of ancient power that made the air itself distort. “Something older. Something you can’t fight.”

The primordial energy radiating from Marcus made all three fighters take involuntary steps backward. This wasn’t normal cultivation. This was something that predated their training, their experience, their understanding of power itself.

Aaron, his pride stung by his earlier struggle, turned his attention to the remaining three with cold fury. “You wanted blood debt? Fine. Let’s see if you can collect.”

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His cultivation technique flared-Iron Phoenix Rising-a method that enhanced speed and striking power exponentially. He moved like lightning, his fist catching the nearest fighter in the temple before the man could

react.

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