The End

You're on your knees, hands behind your head. One of your SWAT-style kneepads has come off, and Alaskan soil digs into your skin. Distant gunfire echoes off the hills around you, the flat bang of a grenade.

Frozen dirt crunches behind you, the careful steps of someone watching you rather than their own feet.

"Now lay on your stomach," you hear.

"Listen to me," you say.

"Shut up and get down!"

"I want to know the truth," you say.

Bitter: "Truth? No such thing."

"Just show me the picture," you say. "Please."

Silence. You take a deep breath, get to your feet, and turn around.

• Three hours earlier...