The strobes cast sharp, chaotic shadows across the facade of the Plaza.

I sat in the back of General Sterling’s armored SUV. The shouts of the paparazzi and the confused guests were muffled by three inches of bulletproof glass.

A trauma medic from William’s unit was finishing the sutures on my temple and re-packing my shoulder.

“You’re lucky, General,” he murmured, cutting the surgical tape. “Another half-inch and that bottle fractures your skull. The shoulder needs a surgical cleanout at Walter Reed, but you’re stable.”

“I’ve had worse,” I breathed, leaning my head against the cool leather.

William sat opposite me with an ice pack pressed to his own battered neck. He looked exhausted, but a profound weight had lifted off him.