MMA gloves at my feet and challenged me to fight in front of the entire neighborhood while his father gleefully recorded my humiliation. What neither of them knew was that the quiet single mom they’d chosen to embarrass had spent more than twenty years in the Army, including commanding Rangers in the 75th Ranger Regiment.

At 0100 hours, Silver Creek was bathed in darkness.

I changed out of my civilian clothes and pulled on my black tactical fire-retardant shirt, cargo pants, and combat boots. I checked my sidearm—a suppressed Sig Sauer P322—and secured my combat knife to my vest.

Noah was fast asleep in his room, guarded by an automated security system I had installed three years ago that linked directly to Chief Henderson's private dispatch line.

I slipped out the back door like a ghost, moving silently through the shadows of the tree line that bordered the Whitmore estate.

Grant's home office was located on the ground floor, facing the woods. Through the large glass patio doors, I could see Grant sitting at his desk, surrounded by stacks of financial ledgers, empty whiskey glasses, and legal documents.

I waited until he stood up to use the restroom down the hall.

Using a diamond-tipped glass cutter and a suction cup, I created a silent four-inch hole in the glass door, reached inside, unlocked the latch, and slid into the room without making a sound.

My gloved hands moved with practiced speed across his desk.

I pulled out a encrypted military flash drive, plugged it into his desktop computer, and initiated a total drive mirror command. Percentages began flashing rapidly across the monitor: 20%... 45%... 70%...

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.

"I tell you, Richard, I don't feel good about this!" Grant's voice argued as he walked back toward the office.

I didn't panic. I snatched the flash drive just as the counter hit 100%, slipped behind the heavy velvet curtains near the patio door, and melted into the darkness.

Grant and Sterling walked into the room.

"The contracts are ready," Sterling said, dropping a thick blue folder onto the desk. "Sign them, Grant. Once your signature is on these pages, Vanguard Tactical officially owns the ridge. You get your three million, and your debt is wiped clean."

Grant picked up the pen, his hands shaking. "And the Colonel next door?"

Sterling smiled, a cruel, cold expression that showed too many teeth. "My men are staging at the old timber mill two miles north. Tomorrow night, we set fire to her pickup truck. When she steps outside to investigate, my team will take her. By sunrise, she'll be at the bottom of Lake Superior."

Behind the curtain, my hand rested lightly on the grip of my knife.