Smoke hissed from the crushed radiator where it had smashed into the heavy iron gates.

A man stepped out of the vehicle, his boots splashing into a puddle of dark water.

It was Derek.

He wore a tailored gray coat, but his hair was disheveled and his eyes were wild in the bright glare of the searchlights.

In his right hand, he held a heavy black pistol.

In his left, he clutched a thick leather folder stamped with a gold crest.

“Clara!” he screamed, his voice cracking against the sound of the wind.

Vincent did not flinch.

He stepped directly into the line of sight, his broad shoulders blocking me from Derek’s view.

“You are trespassing on private property, Derek,” Vincent said, his voice low and remarkably calm.

“I have a federal warrant!” Derek shouted back, waving the leather folder in the air.

“This gives me full authority to seize the assets and the person of Clara Vance.”

Two men in dark tactical gear stepped out of the back of the van, their weapons raised.

Vincent’s security guards emerged from the shadows of the villa, their rifles trained on the intruders.