Chapter 3 - The Tables Turn
Back on my laptop screen, the chaos in the penthouse was reaching a fever pitch.
Sienna was frantically picking up her phone, pressing it to her ear.
“Mom! Mom, the lights turned red! There’s some kind of federal warning on the screens! The door won’t open!”
Through the speaker, my mother’s voice shrieked with panic. “What do you mean the door won't open? Use the override code!”
“I tried! It says ACCESS DENIED: FEDERAL ASSET SECURED!” Sienna sobbed, panic finally overtaking her entitlement. Her two kids had wandered down the hallway from the guest room, crying, rubbing their eyes, terrified by the screaming red emergency lights and the strange humming sound vibrating through the walls.
“Mommy, I want to go home,” the younger boy whimpered, tugging at Sienna’s sleeve.
“Shut up, Leo! Just—just be quiet!” Sienna snapped, losing whatever fragile patience she had left.
“Don't you yell at my grandson!” my father roared through the phone speaker. “Sienna, put me on speaker! I’m calling the Arlington police right now! I’ll tell them some squatter has taken over Clara’s apartment and locked you out!”
I couldn't help it. A bitter, cold laugh escaped my lips.
Let him call the police. Let Dad explain to the Arlington P.D. why he and his daughter were breaking into a federal marshal’s secured residence using a stolen management override code while carrying forged lease documents in their purses.
Because I knew—even if they didn't yet—that Julian Vance didn't leave loose ends.
Suddenly, the front door’s heavy biometric lock clicked with a loud, mechanical clack.
Sienna spun around, her face lighting up with desperate hope. “The police! Thank god, Mom, Dad, the police are here—”
The front door swung open.
It wasn't local beat cops.
Three men in tactical black gear, body armor bearing U.S. MARSHALS insignia clearly emblazoned across their chests, and sidearms holstered securely at their hips stepped into the entryway with terrifying, synchronized precision.
Leading them was a tall, broad-shouldered man with sharp features, piercing grey eyes, and an aura of absolute command.
May you like
Julian Vance.
He wasn't in London. He must have chartered a private flight or was already stationed nearby on rotation, but here he was, standing in his own living room, looking at my weeping sister and terrified niece and nephew with eyes cold enough to shatter glass.
