Chapter 6
Z
The iron gates of the Vance estate in Quail Hollow towered fifteen feet high, topped with wrought-iron spikes and high-definition security cameras. Beyond the manicured lawns stood a massive, neoclassical mansion lit up like a fortress in the midnight mist.
Three Charlotte-Mecklenburg police cruisers were parked down the street, their red and blue lights flashing silently against the wet pavement. Police negotiators were sitting in a mobile command van, repeatedly calling Julian Vance’s private line, receiving nothing but dead dial tones.
The local police captain, a tired-looking man named Miller, rubbed his temples as I walked up to his command post.
"Colonel Vance," Captain Miller said, recognizing my uniform. "Detective Vance told me what happened. I’m sorry about your daughter. But my hands are tied here. The Vance family lawyers just filed an emergency injunction claiming our arrest warrant was obtained through illegally seized evidence. If my officers force entry through those gates without a SWAT breach order—which the city attorney is hesitating to approve—we’ll be sued into oblivion."
"Captain," I said, standing beside him and staring at the sprawling mansion, "Julian Vance is currently packing his passports and cash. A private Gulfstream jet is currently idling on the tarmac at Charlotte-Douglas International Airport under the name of Apex Holdings. You have about twenty minutes before he steps onto that plane and flies to a country without an extradition treaty."
Miller cursed under his breath. "I know, Colonel! But I can't risk my officers' careers or lives storming a fortified compound guarded by private mercenaries without clear legal clearance!"
"Then don't," I said smoothly. "Let me clear the path."
Before Miller could ask what I meant, a low, rhythmic thumping echoed through the fog overhead. The heavy rumble grew louder, vibrating the pavement beneath our feet.
Captain Miller looked up into the cloudy night sky, his eyes wide. "What the hell is that?"
Out of the low-hanging clouds descended two massive, jet-black Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters. Their searchlights cut through the mist like blinding white laser beams, illuminating the entire front lawn of the Vance compound.
The police officers gasped, pulling back as the immense downdraft shook the trees, whipping up rain and debris.
The Black Hawks hovered fifty feet above the manicured lawn of the Vance estate. High-tensile ropes dropped from the open bay doors, and within seconds, eight heavily armed men in full tactical gear slide down the ropes, landing with lethal grace on the lawn. They were members of the Fort Liberty Criminal Investigation Division (CID) Special Response Team, accompanied by federal marshals.
"What is the military doing here?!" Captain Miller yelled over the deafening roar of the rotors.
"Major Nathan Thomas used military assets and classified networks to assist the Vance family," I shouted back, pulling a tactical radio from my belt. "That makes the Vance estate a crime scene linked to an active military espionage and corruption investigation. Jurisdiction transferred to the Federal Government ten minutes ago."
Inside the mansion, lights began flashing furiously. I saw the silhouettes of Julian's private security guards running toward the front windows, panic obvious in their movements as they looked out at military commandos taking up breach positions on their front porch.
I walked straight up to the massive iron gate. Two CID operators stepped up with heavy hydraulic cutters, snapping the electronic lock mechanism in a shower of sparks. The heavy gates swung open with a groan.
I marched down the long brick driveway, flanked by federal marshals and military operators. Captain Miller and his police force followed right behind us, their handguns drawn.
When we reached the massive double oak doors of the mansion, the leader of the CID team, Master Sergeant Ramirez—a veteran who had served under my command in Iraq—looked at me and nodded.
"Order is yours, Colonel," Ramirez said, holding a heavy battering ram.
"Breach it," I ordered.
BOOM!
The heavy oak doors splintered inward with a deafening crack. We flooded into the grand foyer. The interior was lavish—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, priceless artwork hanging on the walls.
Standing on the sweeping double staircase was Marcus Vance, holding a silver handgun with trembling hands.
"Get out of my house!" Marcus screamed, his voice cracking with pure terror as eight laser sights centered directly on his chest. "You have no right! This is private property!"
"Drop the weapon!" Sergeant Ramirez roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings like thunder. "DROP IT NOW OR YOU WILL BE ELIMINATED!"
Marcus looked at the red dots dancing across his chest, looked into my cold, unblinking eyes, and dropped the gun. It clattered down the marble stairs, landing at my boots. Two marshals instantly tackled him to the floor, snapping zip-ties around his wrists.
"Where is Julian?" I asked, stepping over Marcus without even looking down at him.
May you like
Marcus whimpered, pointing a shaking finger toward the upper west wing. "The master bedroom... he locked himself in..."
I didn't wait for the SWAT team. I walked up the marble staircase, my heavy boots leaving wet, muddy footprints on the pristine white carpet.
