I reached the top of the stairs and turned down the long, carpeted hallway.

The walls were lined with oil paintings of former Monroe patriarchs, all of them staring down with stern, silent expressions.

The air up here was cooler, draftier.

I pulled my standard-issue Beretta from its holster.

The weight of the metal was familiar and grounding.

I kept the weapon lowered against my thigh as I walked.

I passed several closed doors—guest bedrooms, a linen closet, a disused game room.

The signal indicator was now at ninety percent.

I stopped outside a set of double oak doors at the very end of the hallway.

This was the entrance to the guest wing.

The doors were unlocked.

I pushed one open with my left hand, keeping my weapon ready.

The hallway inside was dark, the heavy velvet drapes drawn tight against the afternoon sun.

At the far end of the corridor, a thin line of blue light was visible beneath a door.

I could hear a faint, continuous sound.

It was the soft hum of a high-velocity cooling fan.