Friday, September 16, 1:46 p.m. EDT

Scott was moving even before the HERF took the power down. This better work or they’re gonna blow the roof of this place down on us! The stairway went dark.

Scott flattened himself against a stone wall as the sound of breaking glass echoed from above, quickly followed by the ear-splitting staccato of twenty stun grenades detonating.

Immediately, he was back up and running. Fifteen steps later, Scott burst through an arch into a colorful gloom—the only light in the shadowy grey building coming from the stained glass windows above.

Movement caught his eye—he recognized Ubaida Saliba on the ground, pushing a button on a remote control device, once, twice. A round from Scott’s Bushmaster stopped him from trying a third time.

Bravo and Delta teams spread out quickly, and the gunfire began. Off in the distant back of the sanctuary, the sound of doors shattering resounded through the cathedral. Scott glanced over to see Alpha and Charlie teams swarming into the nave.

Continuing at full sprint, Scott beelined for Wilson Bay. All around, bullets flew and men dropped to the ground—but whether good guy, bad guy, or hostage, he didn’t stop to find out.

To his left, a gunman stepped from behind a pillar, his AK-103 leveled at Scott.

He was pegged, and it was too late for him to do anything about it. Skeeter, be there! Skeeter, be there!

A shot from behind Scott caved the gunman’s chest in, and he crumpled to the ground. Skeeter, my man!

Spotting the arched passage into Wilson Bay, Scott slid to a stop against the pillared entry. Not knowing where Riley was, he fired two rounds high, then ducked back. A volley of bullets flew past him. Then three precise, evenly spaced shots sounded from his right.

Scott dove in and found Saifullah, Majid Alavi, and a third man behind a video camera dead on the ground. Skeeter, who had fired the three shots from the opening to the nave, jumped through, slid over Wilson’s tomb, and landed next to Scott.

“Where is he?” Scott yelled.

Skeeter dropped to the ground in response. He threw the dead cameraman out of the way, the body bouncing off Wilson’s final resting place.

Now Scott saw him too. Riley had been shoved under a stone bench, a long red cushion placed in front to conceal him. Skeeter already had hold of his shoulders and was gently easing him out.

Scott fell to his knees. “Is he . . . ?” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

Skeeter’s eyes said it all.

“No!” Scott took hold of Riley and pulled him to his chest. The blood from the gaping wound in his neck had slowed to a trickle, but his friend’s entire upper body was soaked with it. “Riley, no! No! No! No!”

The gunfire outside was slowing down, but Scott hardly noticed. Skeeter, too, seemed to be in a world of his own—squatting down, his head in his hands.

In his ear, Tara’s voice was saying, “What? Scott, what is it?”

He pulled the earpiece and threw it across the bay. “How could this happen, Pach?” Scott asked through his tears. “You’re invincible, man. You’re Captain America.”

A couple of minutes passed while both men grieved in their own ways, until a hand rested on Scott’s shoulder. He looked up and saw Gilly Posada.

“We’re clear,” Posada said softly, the sorrow evident on his face. “Schneeberger needs to talk with you.”

Scott nodded. Gently, he laid the body on the tarp and stood up. He was about to tell Skeeter to stay with Riley, but he realized he didn’t need to. Reaching around to the back of the big man’s neck, Scott pressed his brow to the top of his friend’s bald head, then walked out.