“This is the United States Marshal Service,” the voice announced. “The building is surrounded.”

Charles took a step back, his hand reaching for the brick wall to steady himself.

“Daniel,” Charles muttered, referring to Sheriff Mercer. “Where is Daniel?”

“Sheriff Mercer is currently being disarmed at your front gate,” my father said.

He did not look back, but his posture relaxed slightly.

“You paid him well, Charles, but he doesn’t work for you anymore,” my father added.

A low rumble began to vibrate through the concrete floor beneath my feet.

It was a deep, rhythmic thumping that rattled the metal shelving units.

The sound grew louder, shaking the dust from the wooden beams above our heads.

I knew that sound from my childhood, from the base housing where we used to live.

Helicopters.

Not light police choppers, but heavy, multi-mission military transports.

“What is that?” Ryan whimpered, covering his ears.

“That would be Colonel Ward,” my father said.

He turned his head slightly, listening to the descending roar.

“He does not like his former officers being threatened on domestic soil,” my father said.