POV: Bea Sharpe 

The sound of Bea's fists hitting the heavy bag echoed through the training facility at 0500 hours, just like it had every morning for the past eight years. Each punch was precise, controlled, deadly—the product of a lifetime spent learning that strength was the only currency that mattered in the Sharpe family legacy.

Jab, cross, hook. Breathe. Again.

The Colorado mountain air was thin and sharp, but Bea had been born at altitude. Her lungs were conditioned for the ...