Through an interpreter, our informant had given us the address for the terrorist cell. He was dumb as a brick, but at least we finally had a lead.

“This is where they build the bombs?” I tapped the address I had scribbled on my spiral pad. “Is that what he’s saying?” I had to make sure before we knocked down a door and made Swiss cheese out of the people inside.

The interpreter nodded.

“You sure, Mohammad?” I asked again. “We can't afford to screw this up.”

“That’s what he said, sir,” the interpreter said in his broken English.

“Okay, okay.” I secured my vest. “Let’s do this thing boys!”

Within minutes my team was on its way to catch some bad guys.

Twenty minutes later I stood at the apartment door, the team hidden nearby, waiting for my signal. Life was on the line, as it always is in this type of work. It used to be such an indescribable rush, but at the moment, I wished I was safe at home with my head burrowed into my pillow. After twenty years of this ‘truth and justice and the American way’ stuff, the fight had gone out of me; it felt like it was time to hang up my bullet-proof vest.

I put my ear to the door. I could hear whispers on the other side; I readied my weapon and signaled to the others, praying this was the real deal. I hated when the department got sued by a private citizen’s survivors because of my team's actions.

After the smoke cleared, a family of three lie dead. No bomb-making equipment was found in the apartment.

I should have stayed in bed.