I pressed closer to my father, my boots sinking into the damp soil of the flowerbed.

He put a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm and grounding.

“Stay behind me, Emily,” he whispered.

More federal agents swarmed the private security guards near the marble fountain.

The guards, hired by Charles Whitmore to protect his secrets, were forced onto their knees.

Their hands were secured behind their backs with heavy plastic zip-ties.

The gravel crunched under the heavy boots of the tactical team as they fanned out.

Colonel Ward spoke into a small microphone clipped to his collar.

“Area is semi-secure,” Ward said. “Establish the perimeter and isolate the local authorities.”

He looked back at my father’s phone, which was still humming with a low vibration.

“Arthur, who has that frequency?” Ward asked.

“Only three people in the department had it,” my father said. “And two of them are dead.”

“And the third?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

My father didn’t answer right away, his eyes locked on the scrolling numbers.

“The third retired to a villa in Spain five years ago,” he said.