It was official. It was final.

“Federal agents! Open the door!” a voice boomed from the porch.

Dean stumbled backward. The beer bottle slipped from his hand and hit the floor.

Linda’s face drained of all color. “Dean — what is this?”

He looked back at me, panting. The bourbon courage had evaporated, leaving a terrified little boy. For the first time in our six-year marriage, my husband looked at me with absolute, unfiltered fear.

I took a deep breath, planted my feet, and stood up slowly. My knees trembled from the adrenaline and the head trauma, but when I spoke, my voice was a rod of iron.