The farmhouse sat alone on the Yorkshire moors, its stone walls weathered by time and wind. The only sounds were the howling wind and the distant bleating of sheep. But inside, a different silence reigned—the silence of death.
Colonel James Holloway lay sprawled across the wooden floor, his lifeless eyes staring at the exposed beams above. His throat had been slit with military precision, the blood seeping into the cracks between the floorboards. On the table beside him, his laptop was still open, the screen flickering with the last document he had accessed.
A single sentence stood out: "They’re here. I have proof."