Take that fake medal off before somebody realizes what you really are!”

Justice in the courts moves with methodical certainty, but wounded beasts do not die quietly.

Three days after the Capitol hearing, the fallout was catastrophic for the Vance empire. Marcus Vance had stepped down from the committee in disgrace, federal agents had arrested his son Gregory for felony falsification of military records, and the commercial banks had frozen every asset tied to their real estate holding company.

Yet, as twilight settled over our rehabilitation atelier at the base of Cheyenne Mountain, an ominous quiet descended upon the compound.

The construction trailers sat dormant under the violet alpine sky. Most of the civilian contractors had departed for the weekend, leaving only Michael, myself, David, and Barnaby in the converted hangar that served as our operations hub.

Barnaby suddenly ceased gnawing on his rope toy. His ears pinned flat against his head, and a deep, guttural growl vibrated through his chest as he fixed his amber eyes on the western perimeter fence.

"Michael," I whispered, reaching instinctively down toward the Glock 19 holster concealed beneath my work jacket.

Before Michael could answer, the security floodlights surrounding the main depot went black.

The sudden plunge into darkness was followed instantly by the sharp, tearing screech of steel cable being severed. The perimeter fence had been breached.

"Backup power," Michael commanded calmly, not a trace of panic in his voice. He drew his sidearm from beneath his fleece vest with the smooth, unhurried muscle memory of a Special Forces veteran. "David, get to the secondary monitoring bunker. Lock the heavy blast doors and do not open them until you hear my voice."

"I'm not leaving you two alone!" David snapped, pulling a customized carbine from the armory locker behind the desk.

"You're not leaving us alone," I said, racking the slide of my pistol with a decisive, metallic clatter. "You're securing our comms. If they cut the fiber optic line to the sheriff's office, we lose the response grid. Move, Sergeant!"

David swallowed hard, nodded once, and sprinted down the lower concrete corridor, his metal limb striking the floor in steady, rhythmic strides.

Outside, the crunch of heavy boots on gravel signaled the approach of multiple men. Through the reinforced industrial glass of the atelier’s bay doors, I counted four figures moving in tactical formation—wearing dark tactical gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns, their faces obscured by balaclavas.

"They're not process servers," Michael observed, his breath warm against my ear as we crouched behind the hydraulic frame of an armored excavator.

"Vance’s offshore security contractors," I replied, my pulse settling into that strange, hyper-focused calm that always came before the storm. "They know they’re going to federal prison. They're here to burn the evidence vault and make sure I don't survive to testify at next week's grand jury."

"They picked the wrong mountain," Michael murmured, his fingers gently brushing against my shoulder in a gesture of absolute, lethal solidarity. "Ready, Captain?"