Chapter 3 - The Black Suburbans In The Driveway
Three black Chevrolet Suburbans rolled up the circular private drive, their engines emitting a low, rumbling growl that rattled the windowpanes.
Mark rushed to the bay window, pulling the heavy velvet curtain aside with trembling fingers.
Men in dark tactical suits and unmarked black windbreakers were stepping out of the vehicles, moving with terrifying, military-like precision across the manicured lawn.
“What is this, Sarah?” Mark yelled, turning around to face his wife, his arrogance completely collapsing into hysterical dread.
“Who did you call? Is this the FBI? Are these federal marshals?”
Sarah walked slowly toward the bar cart, pouring herself a glass of ice water with steady, mechanical poise.
“Federal marshals have rules of engagement, Mark,” she said, taking a measured sip. “My father doesn't.”
The front door didn't rattle with a polite knock; instead, a single explosive breach charge blew the heavy oak doors off their hinges with a deafening bang.
The chandelier in the foyer shook violently, sending crystal prisms chiming against one another as smoke poured into the corridor.
Heavy combat boots thudded against the hardwood floor, advancing through the hall in total, calculated silence.
Mark backed against the dining room table, knocking over an antique silver candelabra as he raised his hands in front of his chest.
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“Sarah, please! We can talk about this! I was stressed about the hedge fund audit!” he pleaded, his voice breaking into a desperate sob.
Four armed operatives entered the dining room, their laser sights painting red dots across Mark’s expensive grey suit jacket.
