If it wasn't for rotten luck Ellen supposed she would have none at all.

The special ops had executed their roles without reproach considering she'd had only a few days to assemble a squad from scratch and get them working in concert. Coordination usually took weeks, if not months, to establish a rhythm. Learning to march in step was one thing, but performing a tightly timed military maneuver under the cover of night was something else entirely. They had no idea as to what kind of crowd they'd face at the swap.

Ellen certainly hadn't expected so many women and, to her great regret, children. As the team scouted from under cover and watched scavengers steadily filing into the building, Ellen realized she only had two options: abort, or proceed with the utmost caution. Feeling the eyes of her squad mates on her, she opted for the latter. Her order for them to use deadly force as a last resort sounded hollow, even to her.

They moved as one to the site, smooth and silent. After neutralizing a sentry, they burst into the room clubbing the targets holding weapons and in a matter of seconds had a roomful of scavengers reaching for the ceiling, all without a single shot fired. Perfection.

Except.

"Drop it," Ellen ordered the junkie. The drug-addled man had snatched a woman standing beside him and pressed a revolver into her cheek, his face leering over her shoulder. Ellen had seen his type countless times before—high on rundown and capable of anything but reason. Even worse was the expression of the young woman. Not terrified—in fact, she barely betrayed any trace of fear. Rather she exuded a sense of resignation, even acceptance, as though she'd already survived worse in her life and, at long last, would finally welcome a quick death.

The junkie jerked the hostage backwards until he touched the wall.

"Stay sharp," Ellen barked at her team. She didn't want other scavengers using the distraction to escape or attack. She had to wrench back control of the situation. If she played this right, they'd be marching out of there with a few dozen prisoners and a wealth of information. If she didn't, it would be another firefight in a shoebox. She adjusted her grip on her pistol.

"Look pal," she said. "It's over. You're not walking out of here just because you're holding gun. We've got a dozen guards outside waiting to cut you down. Drop the gun and you live."

"I'm going to kill her," he said and jerked the woman's hair in his fist. She winced before her face again became impassive.

"You think we care?" Ellen hoped her words sounded more convincing than she felt. Her stomach churned. She hoped her bluff would sear through his drug-addled haze. "You know who we are? You know what we do? We're the MPD. If you want to live, you'll do as you're told."

The junkie's eyes darted side to side, like an animal looking for escape.

"Drop it now!" Ellen thundered, mustering as much force as should could.

To her complete surprise, the junkie shoved the hostage forward and tossed the gun at Ellen's feet. The room seemed to exhale as one. Ellen allowed herself a small, self-satisfied smile.

Then a grenade clattered onto the floor.

Her reflexes kicked in as she launched herself away. A split-second later, the grenade exploded.

Ellen felt a searing pain in her calf and cried out. Gunfire ripped through the night as the walls were suddenly dotted by clouds of dust and bullet holes. Ellen rolled to cover and quickly probed her leg, finding the shallow wound. Her shaking hands patted down her ballistic vest, pausing at the torn fabric of her uniform, and she swallowed hard. It had saved her life.

A second grenade flew through the broken window and Ellen shielded herself behind a fallen body. The force of the grenade rattled her teeth and white light flooded her vision. Stun grenades? she thought as her head reeled. How is that possible?

Suppressing her indignation, Ellen gathered her wits and shouted for her team to come to her. Once more she had marched them straight into a trap. Now, once more, she had to lead them out or die trying. She felt sick when only three guards pushed their way through the chaos to join her.

"We're getting out of here. On my mark," she called, steeling her voice. "Retreat out the east exit. Repeat, the east exit. Lay down suppressing fire as you go."

She signaled and, hurdling fallen bodies as they went, they spilled out the door into the night. If their attackers were quick and organized they could get cut apart in the open, but she was their leader, it was her call to make, and she had made it.

And for once, her luck held.

As they fled through the night, thoroughly whipped and shamefully retreating back to Ol' Federal, warm blood streaming into her boot and her calf shrieking with every footfall, she kept returning to the same question: Who was is and how had they known they were coming?