The wind from the blades hit us a moment later, a cold, violent force that smelled of aviation fuel.

The rotor wash flattened the grass and sent dead leaves spiraling into the air.

The three unlit helicopters hovered just above the tree line, their dark silhouettes blocking out the stars.

I could see the figures of tactical team members lining the open doors of the lead aircraft.

They were dressed in black, their helmets reflecting the light from the searchlights.

“Mercer,” Charles said again, his voice cracking.

He grabbed the sheriff’s arm.

“We have to move.”

Mercer shook him off.

“There is nowhere to go, Charles,” Mercer said.

His voice was flat, resigned.

“Look at them.”

“Those are not state troopers.”

“That is a federal tactical team.”

“They have a warrant that overrides anything I can do.”

The guards looked at each other.

One of them slowly set his rifle down on the stone tiles of the veranda.

He stepped back, raising his hands.

The other two followed his lead.

They knew when a fight was lost.

Charles looked at them, his eyes wide with betrayal.