The screen door slammed shut behind the agents, the sound echoing through Wilma Jean’s surprisingly tidy cabin like a gunshot in a Baptist church. Wilma, perched on her porch swing, nursing a glass of sweet tea the color of a Georgia sunset, watched them go. Two young whippersnappers, fresh out of Quantico and clearly more accustomed to chasing down cybercriminals than elderly bank robbers who also happened to preach the gospel. She chuckled, a low rumble in her chest that shook the swing slightly. Retirement, she’d thought, would be peaceful. Quiet. Maybe a little too quiet.