Chapter 2 - The Arrival
Malcolm gave a dismissive smirk, walking toward the grand entryway to pour himself a glass of single-malt Scotch from the crystal decanter. "Don't be dramatic. If you called an Uber in this weather, they'll cancel before they reach the gate."
He hadn't finished lifting the tumbler to his lips when a low, rumbling vibration traveled through the floorboards.
It wasn't thunder. It was the synchronized hum of heavy, high-output engines climbing the steep incline of Asheford Ridge. The private security intercom on the wall beside the kitchen began to chime with urgent, rapid pulses.
Malcolm set his glass down, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What is that?"
He walked toward the towering front bay windows and pulled aside the heavy velvet drapes.
The private access road outside our gate was glowing under a blinding sea of xenon headlights. Long, sleek, black Cadillac Escalades were moving through the falling snow in a tight, military-precision convoy. One by one, they cleared the crest of the hill, their massive tires churning through the fresh powder without a slip.
Five. Ten. Fifteen.
They kept coming until twenty-one identical black vehicles lined the private drive, boxing in our curved stone driveway from end to end. The sheer authority of the motorcade choked off the quiet suburban road entirely. Across the street, the lights in our neighbors' estates began flicking on. Curious faces parted lace curtains; executive neighbors who had spent three years treating Malcolm like a junior partner were now staring out in absolute shock.
"What the hell is this?" Malcolm stammered, his hand frozen against the drape. "Did the Governor’s detail get rerouted? Why are they blocking my gates?"
The wrought-iron security gate at the foot of our driveway didn't wait for Malcolm to buzz them through. An override code was entered into the digital keypad. The heavy black gates swung open smoothly, parting like iron jaws.
The lead vehicle—a custom-armored long-wheelbase Escalade bearing private diplomatic-style crests on the passenger doors—rolled up the heated cobblestone drive and stopped precisely three feet from our front steps.
Two men in dark tailored overcoats and tactical earpieces stepped out into the swirling snow. They didn't hurry. With crisp, synchronized movements, one took up a defensive perimeter near the stone pillars, while the other walked up the front steps and stood before our door.
Malcolm stepped backward, panic finally piercing through his practiced composure. "Nia... stay back. I’m calling the police. Somebody sent private security to our house."
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"Put your phone away, Malcolm," I said calmly, slipping my arms into my cashmere coat. "They aren't here for you."
Before he could answer, the heavy brass door handle turned, and the front door opened.
