The static on the encrypted line crackled softly, a razor-thin sound cutting through the warm Easter afternoon air. Inside the truck, the air smelled of old leather and Lily’s faint, metallic blood. Arthur held the satellite phone pressed to his ear, his knuckles white against the matte-black casing.

Chief Thomas Vance was halfway through a plate of grilled ribs under the Whitmores' silk-draped canopy when his personal cell phone rang. He wiped sauce from his chin with a linen napkin, nodding politely to a state senator's wife before stepping behind a hedge of manicured hydrangeas.

"Vance," he answered gruffly.

"Chief, we have a massive problem," his desk sergeant’s frantic voice erupted through the speaker. "The state police just pulled up to the station with three federal marshals. They have a federal warrant for your arrest."

Vance choked on his breath. "What? Are you out of your mind? On what charges?"

"Rackdfunding, conspiracy, bribery... Chief, they have audio recordings! Hours of them! Calls between you and Richard Whitmore discussing bribe payouts, buried assault reports, and intimidated witnesses! It's all leaking on the news right now!"

precise horror settled into Vance’s stomach. "Turn off the TV! Block the doors!"

"We can't! They're inside the building! They're taking the servers!"

Before Vance could process the panic, the screen on his phone went black, replaced by a flashing red emblem. A high-frequency pulse screeched through the earpiece, forcing him to yank the phone away from his ear.

When he looked up, the music in the courtyard had stopped.

Guests were staring at their phones in absolute shock. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a wildfire.

Margaret Whitmore rushed out of the French doors, her face pale, her pearl necklace swaying wildly against her throat. "Richard! Richard, what is happening?! My card was declined! The caterers just got a notification that their payment bounced! My offshore account in Zurich is showing a zero balance!"

Richard scoffed, though a drop of sweat rolled down his temple. "It's a bank glitch, Mom. Calm down. I'll call the branch manager."

He pulled out his custom gold-plated iPhone and dialed.

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

He dialed again. His personal wealth manager.

“The party you are trying to reach is currently under federal investigation. This call is being recorded.”

"What the hell?" Richard muttered, his charming facade cracking for the first time.

Suddenly, the heavy iron gates at the entrance of the estate groaned. The electrical system controlling the gates sputtered, sparks flying from the motor box, before the massive steel doors swung open violently, crashing against the stone pillars.

A single black sedan rolled slowly up the driveway, its dark-tinted windows reflecting the pale afternoon light.

The Easter guests backed away, murmuring in confusion. Chief Vance drew his service weapon, his hand shaking violently. "Who is that? Is that the marshals?"

The sedan stopped in front of the marble steps.

The driver’s side door opened, and a man in a tailored charcoal suit stepped out. He was not a federal marshal. He was Marcus Kane—the chief legal officer for Global Sovereign Security, a private firm that catered exclusively to heads of state and black-budget intelligence agencies.

Kane walked up the steps, holding a sleek leather briefcase. He ignored Chief Vance’s drawn gun completely, stepping right up to Richard.

"Richard Whitmore Jr.?" Kane asked, his voice smooth and devoid of human warmth.

"Who the fuck are you?" Richard spat, trying to maintain his bravado. "Do you know who I am? Get off my property before I have my men shoot you!"

Kane opened the briefcase and pulled out a single sheet of heavy parchment bearing the seal of the United States District Court for the Southern District, flanked by an emergency presidential directive.

"As of three minutes ago, the Whitmore Estate, all underlying assets, real estate holdings, and subsidiary corporations have been seized under the International Emergency Economic Powers Act," Kane announced calmly.

A gasp echoed across the courtyard.

"You can't do that!" Margaret shrieked, lunging forward. "My family built this town! My father was a supreme court justice!"

"Your father was a traitor who took bribes from foreign syndicates, Mrs. Whitmore," Kane corrected smoothly, looking down his nose at her. "And as for your son..."

Kane shifted his gaze to Richard.

"You made a fatal mistake today, Mr. Whitmore. You laid hands on the daughter of the man who built the modern intelligence infrastructure of this country. You thought he was a retired logistics consultant. You thought he was weak."

Richard’s blood ran cold. "What... what are you talking about? Who is Arthur Miller?"