General Vale rolled down his window and showed his credentials.

“Colonel Langley is the owner of the property inside Unit 412,” Vale told the deputy.

“We’ve got the suspect in the back of the cruiser,” the deputy said, pointing toward a parked vehicle.

I looked through the rear window of the police car.

Grant sat there, his forehead pressed against the glass, his face pale and distorted.

He looked small, stripped of the expensive suits and the arrogant posture he usually wore.

“Did he burn anything?” I asked, my heart stopping.

“No, ma’am,” the deputy replied. “We caught him just as he was dousing a trash can with lighter fluid.”

I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for months.

“The federal warrant just came through on our system,” the deputy added, checking his mobile terminal.

“We are authorized to recover the estate assets.”

We walked down the narrow alleyway between the corrugated metal doors.

The smell of kerosene and damp concrete hung heavy in the air.

Unit 412’s padlock had been cut, hanging uselessly from the latch.