Slowly, he opened his hand and let his pistol drop into the snow.

“Smart choice,” Charles said.

Two of the tactical officers moved forward, pushing Trevor against the brick wall and securing his wrists behind his back.

The other guard was disarmed and forced to the ground.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.

But my relief was cut short when my father’s grip on my coat loosened.

His knees buckled, and he began to slide downward.

“Dad!” I cried, catching him before he hit the frozen ground.

His skin was ice-cold, and his lips had a blue tint under the pale moonlight.

He was breathing in shallow, ragged gasps.

“Emily,” he whispered, his eyes rolling back slightly. “It’s so cold.”

Charles knelt beside us immediately, pressing his fingers to my father’s neck.

“His pulse is weak and rapid,” Charles said, looking up at his lead officer. “We need to get him inside.”

“The building is secure, Mr. Whitmore,” the officer replied. “The medical wing on the third floor is clear.”

“Can you walk, Dad?” I asked, tears stinging my eyes as I rubbed his frozen hands.