“Yes, sir,” I said.

Andrew’s gaze shifted from the General to the papers in the General’s hand, and then to the blue folder still resting on the table.

His breathing grew shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

I saw his weight shift, his boots gripping the floor.

His hand began to rise, his fingers twitching as he stared at the remaining evidence.

Andrew’s eyes went wide, the pupils shrinking to tiny black dots.

He lunged across the mahogany table.

His polished brass belt buckle scraped against the wood with a sharp, screeching sound.

His hand clawed toward the blue folder, his fingers splayed.

Before his nails could touch the cardboard, Staff Sergeant Miller stepped forward from the door.

Miller’s hand came down hard on Andrew’s forearm, pinning his wrist to the table.

The impact made the water glasses rattle in their metal coasters.

“Step back, sir,” Miller said, his voice flat and steady.

Andrew struggled for a second, his boots slipping on the waxed linoleum floor.

“Let go of me,” Andrew hissed, his face turning a dark, mottled red.

“That is my personal property.”