Lily was sitting on a metal folding chair.

Her small hands were bound behind her back with thick yellow zip-ties.

A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth, her wide, blue eyes filled with silent terror.

Behind her stood Vanessa Vale.

Vanessa held the camera in one hand and a matte-black Sig Sauer pistol in the other.

She smiled directly into the lens.

“I know you’re outside, Evelyn,” Vanessa said, her voice distorted by the cheap speaker.

“If you want your little girl to take another breath, you will walk through that door with your hands up.”

The feed went black.

I slipped the phone back into my tactical vest.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands remained perfectly steady.

Years of federal training took over, dampening the panic and sharpening my focus.

I adjusted my grip on my Glock 19.

The freezing Denver wind howled through the gaps in the hangar’s metal siding.

I crept toward the side entrance, my boots navigating the ice patches.

I slid through the heavy metal door, moving into the shadows of the hangar.