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.

It was 2:00 A.M. when I cut the headlights of my tactical SUV and rolled to a stop half a mile from the lake cabin.

I was wearing standard-issue black fatigues, my sidearm secured on my thigh, and a tactical flashlight in my grip. I moved through the dense Georgia pines like a ghost, relying on years of combat training.

The cabin was dark, but a black SUV was parked in the driveway. Captain Miller’s vehicle.

I crept onto the wooden porch and peered through the window. Inside, Mark and Miller were frantically packing stacks of hundred-dollar bills into canvas duffel bags.

"The feds are sniffing around," Miller hissed, zipping a bag shut. "Ramirez told me the FBI was asking about the precinct’s arrest records. We need to move this cash to the secondary safe house tonight."

"Sarah is dead," Mark spat, loading a magazine into his Glock. "Once the money is moved, I'm calling in a favor from the Cartel guys we protected. They'll hit her on base. I don't care what it costs."

Hearing my husband order a hit on me didn't break my heart. It just solidified my aim.

I kicked the front door. It splintered off the hinges, crashing inward.

"Federal agents! Drop your weapons!" I screamed, raising my weapon.

Miller panicked and went for his gun. I didn't hesitate. I put two rounds into his shoulder. He collapsed, screaming in agony.

Mark, however, dove behind the heavy oak dining table, firing blindly. Wood splintered around me as I rolled behind the kitchen island.