From the window that overlooked Cherry Creek, the glow from the front room’s light drifted slightly through the drawn, thick wooden slat shades. A small table lamp, next to which sat Sonia, was barely able to light one corner of the vaulted room but was enough to clearly demarcate the fear and confusion worn on her face. Barely five minutes had passed since two men had crashed through her third floor bedroom window, one of which had killed himself with poison, and the other, still attached to a rope, she had shot dead before he was yanked out of the broken window by a silent black helicopter that had seemingly materialized from out of nowhere. During that time she had done the opposite of what she was sworn to do. A man’s life was not saved but extinguished by her choice. Having broken her Hippocratic Oath, she had also learned that her husband was not the man she knew; he was a government agent for the CIA. At her chest, she closely cradled the MP5 urban assault rifle and was afraid of every creak and groan from the wind-whipped house that seemed to amplify around her.
