“What is the meaning of this?” Patricia screamed, her voice cracking against the wind.

“This is private property,” Grant shouted, trying to step in front of the open front doors.

An agent blocked him with a flat, gloved palm to his chest.

“Federal seizure, sir,” the agent said. “Step back and do not interfere with federal officers.”

I walked back toward the steps, Vance keeping pace beside me.

We watched as three agents approached the five-car garage at the side of the estate.

The motorized glass doors rolled up, revealing Grant’s silver Aston Martin and Patricia’s custom Mercedes SUV.

An agent slapped a bright yellow federal seizure sticker directly onto the driver-side window of the Aston Martin.

“That is a classic,” Grant yelled, his face turning a deep, angry red. “You cannot touch that.”

The agent ignored him, writing a serial number down on a digital tablet before moving to the next car.

Another agent began taking high-resolution photographs of the leather interior, documenting the vehicle’s pristine condition.

Beside me, the rain continued to beat down on the gravel driveway, washing away the manicured look of the lawn.