His communications were dead.

The transponder was locked out.

Emily saw her chance.

She wrenched her arm out of Ryan’s grip.

She stumbled backward onto the grass.

Ryan swung his gun toward her.

I fired once.

The round caught Ryan in the shoulder.

He cried out, dropping his pistol into the mud.

He fell to his knees, clutching his collarbone.

“Emily, run!” I shouted.

She scrambled toward me, slipping once on the wet grass.

I reached out and caught her hand.

I pulled her behind me, using my body to shield her.

She was trembling.

Her coat was soaked through with freezing rain.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

“No,” she gasped.

“No, but they have the files.”

“They have the hard drives in the study.”

“They are trying to burn them.”

I looked back toward the dark mansion.

Two flashlights flickered behind the glass doors of the terrace.

The heavy oak doors swung open.

Charles Whitmore stepped out onto the veranda.

He was wearing a dark wool coat.

He held a leather briefcase tight against his chest.

Behind him stood Sheriff Daniel Mercer and three private security guards.