Chapter 3 - The Siege of the Hilltop Estate
The sprawling, secluded estate of the Prescott family sat majestically atop a heavily wooded hill overlooking the outskirts of Charlotte. Looming behind wrought-iron gates and guarded by private security, the massive stone mansion looked less like a private residence and more like a feudal fortress designed to keep the outside world—and its consequences—at bay.
A convoy of four unmarked federal tactical vehicles rolled up the winding private driveway without sirens, their headlights cut to maintain total element of surprise.
I stepped out of the lead vehicle first, the heavy combat boots of my military uniform crunching sharply against the manicured gravel path. Heavily armed federal agents fanned out in absolute silence, securing every perimeter exit, cutting off any potential escape routes before they even knew we were there.
I walked straight up to the towering double oak doors of the grand entrance. I didn’t bother pressing the decorative brass doorbell. Instead, I drew back my fist and drove it hard against the heavy wood three times—a rhythmic, thunderous summons that echoed loudly across the quiet morning mist.
Moments later, the heavy lock clicked.
The door swung open to reveal an elderly, impeccably dressed butler whose haughty expression melted into absolute horror as he looked past me at the tactical gear and drawn weapons of the federal strike team.
Before the butler could utter a single word, Brandon Prescott pushed his way into the foyer. He was dressed in a silk robe, smelling heavily of scotch, his face flushed with righteous indignation.
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“What the hell is the meaning of this?” Brandon barked, his voice carrying through the cavernous hall. Then his eyes locked onto me and the federal insignia on the agents behind me. He blinked, momentarily stunned, before sneering. “Are you out of your mind, old woman? Do you have any idea who my father is? We’ll have every single one of your badges by—"
“Save your breath, Brandon,” I cut him off, stepping past the trembling butler and marching uninvited into their pristine, marble-tiled living room. “Tell your father his time is up.”
