“Stand down,” Vance called out to his security detail. “They are ours.”

The marshal walked up to us, his heavy boots splashing through the muddy puddles.

“Colonel Monroe, General Vance,” the marshal said, nodding to each of us in turn. “Deputy Marshal Miller. We have the emergency forfeiture warrants signed by the federal judge.”

Vance wiped the rain from his forehead and pointed toward the house.

“Execute them immediately,” Vance said. “Take every asset on this property.”

Miller turned and waved his arm toward the convoy of unmarked vehicles.

Dozens of agents in dark windbreakers spilled out of the trucks, carrying heavy plastic cases, barcode scanners, and rolls of yellow evidence tape.

“Let’s move,” Miller shouted over the roar of the idling diesel engines. “Every vehicle, every piece of art, every high-value item listed on the corporate ledger.”

I turned to look back at Patricia and Grant.

They stood on the grand portico, shielded from the rain but frozen in place.

Two agents marched past them without a word, their wet boots leaving muddy tracks on the white marble steps.