He kept his hand on my shoulder as we began the climb up the dark concrete stairs.

With every step upward, the sound of the helicopter rotors grew louder, a deafening roar that filled the entire estate.

The air in the grand hallway upstairs was cold, the front doors having been blown off their hinges.

Outside, the manicured lawns were ruined, torn up by the landing skids of two massive Black Hawk helicopters.

Soldiers in full tactical gear were lining up the Whitmores’ private security guards against the stone fountain.

Among them stood Sheriff Mercer, his badge already stripped from his chest, his face dark with anger.

My father guided me toward the edge of the terrace, away from the swirling dust.

A tall man in a dark green service uniform walked toward us through the glare of the searchlights.

His silver hair was cut close, and his eyes were fixed on my father.

He stopped a few feet away, looking at us both.

“Arthur,” the Colonel said, his voice cutting through the noise of the engines.

“Samuel,” my father replied, giving a brief nod.