"Buy the bastards some milk," my wealthy fiancée laughed, flipping a twenty-dollar bill toward my ex-wife. I'd thrown her out of my life a year ago after believing she had cheated on me.

The rain over the Vermont mountains was relentless, pounding against the windshield of our armored SUV parked two miles from the Whitmore country estate.

Through the night-vision binoculars, the property looked like a fortress. A iron gate, eight-foot security fences, and high-resolution cameras surrounded the timber-frame mansion.

"We have four guards on rotation," Briggs reported from the front seat, tapping a tablet displaying a thermal feed from a high-altitude drone. "Two inside, two patrolling the perimeter. The nanny and the child are on the second floor, west wing."

Maren sat beside me in the back seat, holding a tiny blue blanket she had carried with her all the way from the cabin. Her face was set like marble.

"What's the entry plan?" I asked, my blood pounding in my ears.

"Briggs’ team will cut the primary power grid and jam the cellular repeaters," Briggs explained. "The backup generator will take ninety seconds to kick in. In those ninety seconds, Team Alpha breaches the side entrance, neutralizes the perimeter guards with non-lethal tasers, and clears a path to the second floor. You and I go in behind them to secure the boy."

"No mistakes," I warned. "If a single weapon is discharged near that baby—"

"My men are professionals, Mr. Cole," Briggs interrupted calmly. "We don't make mistakes."

At precisely 2:00 AM, the lights across the massive Whitmore estate flickered out simultaneously. The perimeter floodlights died, plunging the lush estate into absolute darkness.

"Go, go, go," Briggs commanded into his radio.

We moved like ghosts across the wet lawn. The rain muffled our footsteps as Alpha Team cut through the side door's heavy lock with a silent hydraulic cutter. We spilled into the mansion’s service hallway just as the muffled sounds of brief, intense hand-to-hand combat echoed from the front lobby.

"Perimeter clear," a voice crackled over Briggs’ earpiece. "West wing stairs secured."

Maren and I sprinted up the spiral staircase, our hearts hammering in unison. We reached the heavy oak door of the second-floor nursery. Briggs kicked the lock, sending the door flying open.

Inside, a middle-aged nanny was frantically trying to dial a phone that had no signal. Beside her, sitting in a mahogany crib, was a toddler with thick blond curls, wide blue eyes, and my exact nose.

He wasn't crying. He was just sitting there, staring at the doorway with curious, innocent eyes.

"Julian..." Maren gasped, dropping to her knees as tears mixed with the rainwater streaming down her face.

She rushed to the crib, reaching inside and pulling the boy into her arms. She clutched him so tightly I feared she might bruise him, burying her face in his neck, sobbing uncontrollably.

"My baby... my sweet boy... Mommy's here... Mommy's got you..."

The baby, startled at first, looked at her face. Then, instinctively, he reached out his tiny hand and touched her damp cheek, letting out a soft, tiny coo that shattered what was left of my heart.

I stepped forward, kneeling beside them, wrapping my arms around both of them. For the first time in fourteen months, my family was complete in one room.

"Sir," Briggs called out sharply from the doorway, checking his watch. "The secondary generator is about to kick in. The automatic silent alarm will ping the local sheriff's department in thirty seconds. We need to move NOW."