Beside us, two unmarked black SUVs carried the federal tactical team.

“Are you ready for this?” Nora asked quietly, her eyes on the road.

“I’ve been ready for five years,” I said.

We turned down the long, winding driveway of the Thorne manor.

Valet parkers in black tuxedos were running back and forth under large umbrellas, parking luxury sedans.

The massive stone mansion was lit up, bright yellow light spilling from the tall arched windows.

Inside, we could see the silhouettes of hundreds of wealthy donors, champagne glasses in hand.

We parked at the edge of the property, hidden by a row of thick manicured hedges.

Vance got out of the lead SUV, wearing his tactical vest over his dress shirt.

“Miller, secure the perimeter,” Vance ordered into his radio. “Nobody leaves this estate.”

“Block the private airstrip access road,” Vance added.

I got out of the car, the cold rain immediately soaking my hair.

“I’m coming with you,” I said to Vance.

He looked at me, saw the expression on my face, and did not argue.

“Stay behind me,” he said.