I tried to push myself up with my good arm. As I shifted, something dislodged from the tactical pocket of my vest.

It hit the marble with a sharp metallic clink.

A heavy titanium dog tag, scorched and deeply scratched, on a broken chain. I’d pulled it from the neck of a fallen Ranger three days ago. I’d used its jagged edge to saw through zip-ties in the pitch black of a cave.

The tag slid across the smooth marble, spinning like a coin. It slid out of the alcove and caught the light of the chandeliers.

It came to rest against the tip of William Sterling’s polished black dress shoe.

The groom looked down.