“You do not enter the house until they secure the perimeter.”

“Understood,” I said.

We left the conference room and walked back down to the garage.

The sky was beginning to turn a pale, cold grey as dawn approached.

A fleet of black government SUVs was already lined up in the lower level.

Men and women in tactical vests with ‘FBI’ and ‘U.S. MARSHAL’ printed on them were checking their gear.

The sound of sliding metal and clicking holsters echoed in the concrete space.

I walked over to the lead vehicle, my heart thumping.

The agent in charge, a tall man with a scarred jaw, looked at me.

“Colonel Richards?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Get in the back,” he said, opening the door of the SUV.

“We leave in two minutes.”

I climbed into the back seat, the smell of leather and gun oil filling the cabin.

Sterling stood by the door of the garage, watching us.

He gave me a brief nod as the heavy engine roared to life.

The garage door opened, and the caravan of vehicles sped out into the cool morning air.