I smashed my truck through his front gates after a frantic 2:00 a.m. call, only to find my daughter's husband standing on the porch with a bloodstained bat.

By 5:30 p.m., the rain had stopped, replaced by a thick, rolling mountain fog that crept across the manicured lawns of Oak Ridge Lane.

Marcus and I parked two miles away on an overgrown fire trail and moved through the woods on foot. We wore dark tactical clothing, our faces smeared with anti-reflective greasepaint. Through the thermal monocular, the Vance estate looked like a fortress under light siege.

Four private security vehicles patrolled the perimeter fence. Bright halogen floodlights bathed the front lawn in artificial daylight. The iron gates I had rammed earlier that morning had been temporarily chained shut, guarded by two armed men in tactical vests.

"Too hot on the north side," Marcus whispered through his throat mic, lying prone beside me in the dense rhododendron thicket. "They’ve doubled the guard rotation."

"They're guarding the perimeter," I observed, scanning the layout. "Look at the roofline and the secondary service entrance behind the stables. They left the kitchen delivery route open for the catering trucks preparing for the post-press conference reception."

"Classic mistake," Marcus agreed. "Too many civilian contractors coming and going. Let’s move."

We slipped through the treeline like shadows, timing our movement to the sweep of the exterior floodlights. We crossed the open lawn behind a white commercial delivery van unloading crates of champagne.

Within ninety seconds, we were pressed against the brick exterior of the mansion’s west wing, right outside the mudroom door.

I tested the handle. Locked.

Marcus stepped up with a slim lockpick gun. Two quick vibrations, a dull *click*, and the heavy service door swung inward without a sound.

We slipped inside, closing the door behind us, moving into the dim, warm interior of the mudroom.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Along the right wall hung a row of custom mahogany lockers and polished brass coat hooks. Hunting jackets, rain slickers, and riding coats hung in neat, orderly rows.

And there, hanging third from the left, was Maya’s black wool trench coat.

I stepped forward, my hands moving across the heavy fabric. I slipped my fingers into the left interior pocket, feeling along the seam until my fingertips hit a tear in the lining. I pushed deeper into the hem, my knuckles brushing against something small, hard, and rectangular.

My fingers closed around a sleek, cold piece of brushed steel: the micro-USB drive.

"Got it," I whispered.

"Step out of the shadows, Frank."

The mudroom lights suddenly flared on with blinding brilliance.

Standing in the arched doorway leading to the main kitchen was Julian Vance.

His face was a grotesque canvas of surgical tape, splints, and violent purple bruising around both eyes from where I had broken his nose. In his right hand, leveled squarely at my chest, was a nickel-plated .45 automatic pistol.

Behind him stood two private security guards, their hands resting on tactical submachine guns.

"You really are predictable, old man," Julian sneered, his voice nasally and thick through his broken nose. "Did you really think I didn't know she hid it in the coat? I tore that coat apart two hours ago and found nothing. But I knew you’d come back for it. A loyal dog always returns to the master's porch."

I didn't move. I kept the thumb drive concealed tightly within my closed fist.

"Put the gun down, Julian," I said calmly. "It’s over. The whole world is about to see who you really are."

Julian laughed—a high, manic, unhinged sound. "The whole world? Who is going to tell them? A broken mechanic and an ungrateful little tramp who’s about to be declared legally insane?"

He raised the pistol, his finger tightening on the trigger. "My father is at the country club right now, announcing your arrest warrant to sixty television cameras. You broke in here again, Frank. And this time, nobody will blame me for putting three rounds through your heart."

"You forgot one thing, Julian," I said quietly.

Julian frowned, his arrogant eyes narrowing. "What?"

From the shadows behind the industrial refrigerator, Marcus’s voice broke the silence like a crack of thunder.