My stomach dropped as the SUV rounded a sharp corner, the tires protesting against the wet road.

“She didn’t just frame you for infidelity,” Hayes said, his voice dark.

The vehicle turned onto Oakcrest Drive, the large oak trees lining the street casting deep shadows.

Ahead of us, Patricia’s neat, white-paneled house came into view.

Every light in the house was turned off.

But on the front porch, the screen of a cellular phone was glowing bright blue in the dark.

The SUV ground to a halt against the concrete curb.

The wet gravel of the driveway crunched under our heavy tires.

I opened the door before the driver could fully park, the cold night air rushing into the cabin.

My combat boots hit the wet asphalt with a dull thud.

General Hayes was right behind me, his trench coat rustling in the wind.

“Wait for my signal,” Hayes told the driver.

The driver nodded, keeping his hands on the steering wheel.

The blue and red lights of our escort vehicles painted the white siding of the house in rhythmic flashes.