THEY FORCED THE CLERK TO HER KNEES, BUT WHEN HER JACKET RIPPED OFF, A FOUR-STAR GENERAL DROPPED TO SALUTE

The Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk flew low through the darkening Alabama dusk, skimming the tree line at ninety knots with its navigation lights blacked out. Inside the cabin, the red interior illumination cast a sinister glow across our faces.

General Vance sat across from me, a secure tablet in his hand, monitoring the electronic traffic across the southeastern corridor.

""Harris took the bait,"" Vance reported, his eyes scanning lines of intercepted code. ""The moment Vane made that transmission, a private Gulfstream jet departed Andrews Air Force Base heading for an unlisted landing strip outside Birmingham. Senator Sterling is onboard. He’s flying down to personally verify the destruction of the data and oversee the final consolidation of Apex Vanguard’s assets.""

""He wants to celebrate,"" I said, checking the battery on my thermal optics. ""Arrogant men always want to admire the ashes.""

""We're ten miles out from the Wright homestead,"" the pilot announced over the intercom. ""Thermal sensors show activity around the perimeter. At least two black SUVs parked behind the barn. Heat signatures indicate five armed hostiles moving toward the main residence.""

My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands remained steady as granite. Martha Wright was seventy-two years old. Her son had bled out in my arms three years ago, his last breath spent making me promise that I would watch over his mother. For three years, I had sent anonymous money orders from my meager supply clerk salary to pay her mortgage, never daring to visit because my presence was a death sentence.

""Drop me at the treeline,"" I told the pilot. ""If you bring this bird over the house, they'll use her as a human shield.""

""Blake, wait for the tactical team to establish a perimeter,"" Vance commanded.

""There's no time,"" I cut him off, sliding the side door open. The rush of warm southern night air roared into the cabin, smelling of pine needles, damp earth, and impending rain. ""They’re entering the house.""

Before Vance could argue, I hooked my carabiner to the fast-rope and slid twenty feet into the darkness of the Alabama woods, hitting the soft loam with a quiet, rolling crouch. The helicopter immediately pulled pitch and banked away, drawing attention to the north.

I unslung my suppressed carbine, flipped down my night-vision goggles, and the world shifted into sharp, phosphorescent green.

Two sentries were posted near the dilapidated wooden barn. They moved with the lazy confidence of men who believed their mission was already accomplished. Private security contractors, hired guns who thought an old woman presented zero operational threat.

I closed the distance using the cover of the ancient oak trees, stepping silently through the brush. At twenty yards, I raised the weapon.

Pfft-pfft.

The first sentry collapsed into the weeds without a sound. The second turned toward the noise, raising his submachine gun, but a third round caught him through the neck. He crumpled beside the rear tire of their SUV.

I didn't stop to check vitals. I moved at a dead sprint toward the rear porch of the farmhouse.

The kitchen door had been kicked off its hinges. Inside, the sound of shattered glass and upturned furniture echoed through the hallway.

""Where did the boy hide the documents, old woman?"" a harsh, gravelly voice barked from the living room. ""We know he sent packages home before he shipped out! Where are they?""

""My Marcus died serving this country!"" Martha's frail, defiant voice rang out, cracked with age but unbreakable. ""He wouldn't leave anything for vermin like you!""

The sound of a heavy blow landed, followed by a sharp gasp of pain.

Something inside me snapped.

I breached the kitchen threshold like a phantom, moving through the narrow corridor with zero sound.

In the living room, two men in civilian tactical clothing had Martha pinned against her late husband's recliner. A third man, tall and broad-shouldered with a sidearm drawn, stood over her, his hand raised to strike her again.

""Drop it,"" I said.

The tall man spun around, raising his pistol, but my carbine barked twice. The heavy slugs blew through his center chest, throwing him back across the coffee table in a shower of splintered wood and flying papers.

The second contractor lunged forward, using Martha as cover, drawing a combat knife from his chest sheath.

I didn't hesitate. I shifted my aim two inches to the left, squeezing the trigger. The round severed his brachial artery; he shrieked, dropping the blade as he stumbled backward into the wall.

The third man raised his hands high above his head, terror washing across his features as he recognized the winged dagger tattoo visible on my exposed, soot-covered arm.