Chapter 6 - The Federal IncursionThe FBI didn't care about blue horses. They cared about the fact that three major crime syndicates had suddenly stopped shooting at each other and started filing their tax returns with terrifying, machine-like accuracy.
On a freezing Thursday morning in late February, four black SUVs smashed through the outer gates of the Briar Hill estate before the motion sensors even had time to warm up.
Special Agent David Vance (no relation to Victor) stepped out of the lead Tahoe with a federal warrant in his hand and twelve tactical agents behind him.
"Marcus Han!" Vance shouted into the megaphone, his breath pluming in the gray air. "Federal warrant for racketeering, conspiracy, and financial manipulation! Open the doors or we breach!"
Inside the study, Marcus didn't flinch. He looked at the security monitors. The federal agents were swarming the courtyard, their automatic rifles held at high ready, boots crunching on the pristine snow.
Amara was sitting at the walnut table, halfway through a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and pecans.
"Mr. Han," she said, looking at the screen with mild interest. "Are those the police?"
"Not quite," Marcus said, wheeling himself over to the window. "Those are people who don't like my books."
"Do they have a warrant?"
"They have a piece of paper that says they can take everything I own."
Amara frowned, sliding off her booster cushion. She walked over to her rabbit backpack, unzipped it, and pulled out a battered pink folder with unicorn stickers peeling off the corners.
"My grandma said people with papers are just people who forgot how to talk," she announced.
Before Marcus could stop her, Amara walked out of the study, down the grand staircase, and straight through the front doors of the manor into the freezing Chicago wind.
Agent David Vance was standing on the stone steps, raising his hand to signal the breach team, when the heavy oak door creaked open.
He expected Marcus Han. He expected armed guards. He expected blood.
Instead, a six-year-old girl in a Target pink coat and wet sneakers stepped out onto the porch, holding a pink plastic folder.
Vance froze. His agents froze. The entire courtyard went dead silent except for the wind whistling through the pines.
"Are you the boss of the police?" Amara asked, her voice carrying clearly across the snow-covered lawn.
May you like
Vance lowered his bullhorn, staring down at her in absolute bewilderment. "Who... who are you?"
"I'm Amara Brooks," she said, walking right up to the edge of the granite steps and tapping the pink folder against her leg. "And your math is wrong."
