Sarah and I, Bernard Magnusson III, have different, though often complementary, methods. Even before the change that made her into the love of my life, Sarah has preferred the direct approach, facing her adversaries head-on. She is a slayer of beasts, a killer who wants to look her quarries in the eye before loosing the fate of a bullet. I have never been a man for one-on-one confrontation. My forte is in the art of a plan, in traps set and time bode. That is why I write this journal from the seat of my rented car, sitting outside an exclusive residence in troubled Kyrgyzstan. An exclusive residence that, if all the wires are in their right place, will not exist in but a few minutes.

Should this chronicle of my thoughts be the only documents of my last moments, I want it to be known that I never trusted Stapleton, not for one moment. I met Meghan briefly just prior to joining Sarah's entourage last year. She was the liaison who selected the members of the traveling staff. Though at the time I was just a former concierge from Pretoria, I had enough mental acuity to realize the rest of the party wasn't of similarly innocuous origin. Mercenaries, wandering criminals and borderline sociopaths all. Stapleton knew this and it was clear that her hand-picked selections were no accident. Whether she anticipated some trouble on the trail, I have no idea. All that is certain is that Meghan Stapleton runs in unsavory circles and was never above suspicion.

So, when she resigned in February, I began my investigation in Stapleton's recent activities. She claims she was interested in spending time with her family, but I have it on good authority that she had been avoiding her kin to go on extended "business trips" ever since her daughter was born. When I looked into the nature of these excursions, I discovered a globetrotting series of plane tickets that made no obvious sense at the start. I filed that information in the back of my mind until new evidence came to light. Then, when this most recent situation began on that bloody day in Italy, it all clicked into place. Stapleton had gone to Tehran on no fewer than three occasions. What purpose would an advisor to the former Governor of Alaska have to frequent the capitol of Iran?

Further digging revealed a few odd cheques from various individuals tangentially related to Fox News. On its own, not pertinent information. But combined with her travels and the obvious tampering with the PalinBot 5000, Stapleton's hand in this mess became all too clear. Someone discovered that we replaced the GOP's original android and has been attempting to crack the PB 5000's AI. The buck doesn't stop at Stapleton, but she's vital enough that someone has been relying on her a lot, perhaps too much. They need us alive, or at least one of us. The other is expendable. I can think of reasons either Sarah or I would be the target for termination, but I don't plan on finding out for certain. It's time to take the fight to our pursuers, which is why I'm here tonight.

In just a few moments, Meghan Stapleton will begin to prepare her nightly cup of homemade hot cocoa. She will slowly melt baker's chocolate with a quantity of fresh whole milk, two tablespoons of sugar and a small amount of vanilla extract. It will not be her stove nor a wired hinge in her cabinet that triggers the C4 I have planted in her kitchen. It will be her bad habits. You see, Meghan Stapleton has a tendency to leave her refrigerator door open while cooking. When the temperature in the refrigerator rises to unacceptable levels, its cooling system with come to life, sending an electrical impulse to the detonator in the floor. Complicated, yes. But poetic. The very public assassination of this pawn will send a message to those who seek to do harm to Sarah and me: We are on to you and we will not go quietly.