I turned to Madison, who was still kneeling beside our father.

Richard’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow.

“Dad,” Madison whispered, her hands shaking as she held the cloth against his back.

“Stay with me, please.”

I knelt beside her, checking his pulse.

It was weak, but it was there.

The red and blue lights from the courtyard continued to sweep across the room, illuminating the blood on the floor.

As the medics hurried into the room with their gear, my eyes fell on the desk.

Beside the transceiver, a small, black ledger lay half-hidden under a stack of papers.

It had fallen from the shelf during the struggle.

The leather cover was worn, the edges frayed.

I reached out and picked it up.

Inside, columns of numbers and dates were written in my father’s neat, precise handwriting.

But there was something else.

On the very last page, a single name was written in bold black ink, a name that didn’t belong to Hayes or my father.

It was a name I recognized from the Pentagon.

The radio on the desk gave a final, loud burst of static.