“There is a second convoy blockading the entrance,” the voice said.

“They aren’t ours, sir.”

I looked down the long, winding driveway.

Through the heavy rain and the dark pine trees, red and blue lights began to flash.

But they were not police lights.

They were the heavy, blinding strobes of unmarked armored trucks.

And they were moving fast toward the house.

One of the trucks veered off the paved road, its massive tires tearing through the manicured front lawn.

The engine roared, a deep, mechanical growl that drowned out the sound of the rain.

Vance pulled his sidearm.

My hand went to my holster as the first vehicle skidded to a halt on the gravel right in front of us.

The driver’s door of the lead armored truck swung open.

A tall man in a dark tactical vest with bold yellow letters reading *US MARSHAL* stepped down into the gravel.

He held up a laminated badge, squinting through the downpour as he walked toward us.

General Vance slowly lowered his sidearm, his chest rising and falling in the damp air.