Above us, the glass in the basement windows rattled violently.

Searchlights swept across the high, narrow windows of the cellar, casting long, moving shadows across the walls.

The sound of shouting came from the courtyard outside.

It was followed by the sharp, metallic cracks of flashbang grenades detonating in the gardens.

“They’re breaching the north gate,” Marcus muttered, his rifle lowering.

“Drop it, son,” my father said to him. “There is no profit in dying for a family that is already bankrupt.”

Marcus hesitated for a fraction of a second.

Then, the heavy rifle clattered onto the concrete floor.

He raised his hands and stepped away from the weapon.

“Wise choice,” my father said.

Ryan looked toward the stairs, his eyes darting like a cornered animal.

He saw the tactical team descending, their shields reflecting the blue light of the phone.

He looked back at the server racks, then at his father.

Charles had slumped against the wall, his face completely devoid of color.

“We have political friends,” Charles whispered, though his voice lacked any real conviction. “The Senator. He is upstairs.”