I pushed the door open, stepping onto the thick Persian rug inside.

The room smelled of old paper, leather, and lemon wax.

I pulled my small flashlight from my pocket and shielded the lens with my hand.

A thin beam of light illuminated the bookshelves.

I scanned the east wall.

It was lined with heavy mahogany panels.

I moved my fingers along the edges of the wood, searching for a seam.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I felt a slight indentation near the baseboard of the third panel.

I pressed it.

A small latch clicked, and the panel swung outward an inch.

Inside the dark recess lay a small, leather-bound book.

Melissa’s diary.

I reached in and took it.

The leather was cold and slightly damp.

I slipped it into the inner pocket of my jacket and zipped it shut.

Suddenly, the overhead lights flooded the room.

The sudden brightness blinded me for a second.

I dropped my hand to my holster.

“I wouldn’t do that, Colonel,” a voice said from the doorway.

Brandon Prescott stood in the doorway, his hand resting casually in his trouser pocket.