Her gaze lingered on my uniform, her lips curling into a thin, cold line of contempt.

“Colonel Monroe,” she said, her voice carrying clearly over the sound of the rain. “I assume you are responsible for this circus.”

I did not answer her.

I stepped aside as the lead marshal reached the top of the stone stairs.

He opened his leather folder and pulled out a stack of papers bearing the seal of the United States District Court.

“Patricia Monroe,” the marshal said, his voice loud and clear.

Patricia’s attorney stepped forward, his hand raised.

“My client has no statement at this time,” the attorney said. “We have already filed an appeal regarding the search warrants.”

The marshal ignored him, looking directly at the matriarch of the Monroe family.

The rain continued to fall, the drops drumming against the canvas tops of the military vehicles parked on the lawn.

My phone in my tactical pocket began to vibrate against my thigh.

I reached down, pulled it out, and looked at the screen.

The countdown timer had reached zero, but a new window had opened on the encrypted application.