The air smelled of wet earth and exhaust from the idling transport vans.

I rounded the corner of the main house.

The carriage house stood fifty yards away, half-hidden by overgrown ivy.

The old wooden doors were closed, but a single light flickered inside the upper window.

I reached for my sidearm, my fingers wrapping around the cold grip of my service pistol.

I did not draw it yet.

I kept my hand on the holster as I walked.

Every step felt lighter than the last, despite the mud clinging to my boots.

The weight of the Monroe name was finally slipping away.

I reached the wooden steps of the carriage house.

The door was slightly ajar.

A thin line of yellow light spilled out onto the wet grass.

I stood there, listening.

Inside, there was the sound of paper rustling.

Then, the distinct click of a laptop lid closing.

I raised my left hand to my earpiece.

“Miller, are you in position?” I whispered.

“In position at the rear exit, Colonel,” Miller replied.

“No one gets out,” I said.