“Not according to the power of attorney Ethan Prescott signed this morning,” the guard said, reaching into his jacket.

Before he could pull out the document, my personal phone vibrated in my hand.

I looked down at the screen.

It was an alert from a local news app, but below it was a text from Rachel.

*Warrants signed. Agents are five minutes out from the estate and the hospital. Stand by.*

I looked up at the guard, my heart hammering against my ribs as the sound of distant sirens began to echo through the streets below.

The guard’s hand remained inside his jacket.

“Step back, Colonel,” he said.

I did not move an inch.

The sirens in the streets below grew louder, their high-pitched wails bouncing off the concrete walls of the hospital parking deck.

“I don’t think I will,” I said.

The elevator doors behind me dinged.

A team of six federal agents in tactical vests stepped out into the hallway.

Their heavy boots squeaked against the polished linoleum floor.

The lead agent, a woman with her gold badge hanging from a chain around her neck, drew her weapon.