Victor scrambled behind the mahogany desk.

Marcus fired three more times, wood splinters flying through the air.

I leaned out and returned fire, my bullet grazing Marcus’s forearm.

He cried out, dropping his gun.

The wounded guard grabbed Marcus by the jacket.

“We have to go,” the guard yelled, pulling him toward the back exit.

Their heavy boots slammed against the hardwood as they fled down the hallway.

The house fell silent, except for the sound of the rain.

I did not chase them.

My assignment was to keep Victor alive.

I walked over to the desk, keeping my weapon raised and scanning the corners of the room.

Victor was on the floor, clutching his left side.

Blood seeped through his white shirt.

He looked up at me, his face pale and sweating.

“Who the hell are you?” he gasped.

“Special Agent Elena Vargas,” I said.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my federal badge.

I held it where he could see it.

He stared at the gold shield, then at the gun in my hand.

“You’ve been cleaning my floors for six months,” he said.

“And saving your life was never the plan,” I said.

I knelt beside him and checked his wound.

The bullet had only grazed his ribs, but he was bleeding heavily.

I ripped a strip of cloth from my apron and pressed it hard against the cut.

He groaned, leaning his head back against the desk.

“Marcus tried to kill me,” he muttered. “My own brother’s boy.”

“He did not do this alone,” I said.

I reached into the inner pocket of my vest.

I pulled out a small, plastic-wrapped item.

It was a black-and-white photograph.

It showed a younger Victor standing next to his late brother.

“You need to look at this,” I said.

Before I could hand it to him, his cell phone on the desk began to vibrate.