At 3:15 A.M., I was stepping out of the gates at Fort Sterling when my cell phone vibrated. I nearly let it go to voicemail after a grueling sixteen-hour shift, but then my mother’s contact flashed on the screen.

We spent the next forty-eight hours fortifying our case. Colonel Vance brought in military cyber-experts to authenticate the audio recording of the assault, rendering Mark’s claim of "doctoring" utterly useless in a federal court.

Meanwhile, the FBI sent two Special Agents to the base. They reviewed the ledger and immediately launched a covert grand jury investigation. But they needed one more thing: the physical cash.

"Mark’s offshore accounts are heavily encrypted," Special Agent Thorne explained. "But guys like him always keep a physical stash. A rainy-day fund in case they have to run. If we find the cash, the entire syndicate collapses."

I looked at the ledger. There was a recurring property address listed under the expenses—a cabin out by Lake Oconee. Mark had told me it was a police union retreat.

"I know where the money is," I told Thorne. "But if the FBI raids it, Miller will get tipped off by the local dispatch, and the money will be moved before you cross the county line."

"So how do we get it?" Thorne asked.

"I go get it," I said. "Mark thinks I'm terrified, hiding on base. He won't expect me to go on the offensive."