The doorbell rang a second time, longer and more insistent.

Footsteps sounded on the front porch, heavy and synchronized.

“Paul, the back hallway,” Gordon hissed, ignoring his younger daughter entirely.

Paul Mercer turned toward the pantry door that led through the kitchen to the service stairs.

I didn’t move to stop Paul; I knew who was waiting at the rear entrance.

Heavy boots thudded against the hardwood in the foyer as the front door lock clicked and the heavy oak door swung open.

Vice Admiral Thomas Bell entered first, wearing his service dress blues, his expression carved from granite.

Behind him came four federal agents in dark windbreakers with yellow lettering on the back.

Two more agents entered through the kitchen, escorting a pale Paul Mercer back into the dining room.

“Rear Admiral Hart,” Bell said, giving me a brief, formal nod.

“Admiral Bell,” I replied, stepping aside now that the perimeter was secure.

“Gordon Hart, Paul Mercer,” Bell said, addressing my father and his partner. “We have a federal warrant for the premises, your personal residences, and the headquarters of Hart Precision Marine.”