I leaned against the cedar railing of the terrace, wearing my favorite faded denim work shirt, holding a ceramic mug of hot black coffee.
Advertisement
I was sixty-seven years old now.
My silver hair was cropped close; my weathered face carried the deep, honorable lines of a man who had walked through the fire and left the ground whole; but my spine was straight as a hemlock beam, my hands were steady, and my heart was anchored in an eternal, overflowing peace that filled every corner of my soul.
Beside me stood Special Agent Marcus Vance—who had retired from the FBI six months ago to become our foundation’s chief of historical security—leaning his forearms on the wood, looking out across the sparkling blue water of the river.
Advertisement
A quiet footstep sounded on the flagstones behind us.
First Sergeant Donald Ray walked up to the railing, wearing his crisp dress uniform, holding a certified legal dispatch binder stamped with the official seal of the United States Bureau of Prisons.
