Two elongated, armor-plated, matte-black government SUVs. They dominated the cracked concrete of our suburban cul-de-sac.
Standing beside the rear passenger door of the lead vehicle wasn’t a corporate chauffeur. It was Master Sergeant Miller, David’s former squad leader, dressed in a flawless dress uniform. Two other operators from David’s unit flanked the vehicles.
Miller stepped forward, his eyes locking onto mine. He didn’t offer a handshake. He snapped a crisp, razor-sharp salute.
“Good morning, Mrs. Vance,” Miller said, his voice thick with emotion and profound respect. “General Sterling sent us to facilitate your immediate extraction. It is an honor to escort you, ma’am.”
The rusty hinges of the house’s front door whined in protest. Chloe stepped out onto the porch, clutching a mug of herbal tea, her silk robe fluttering. She stopped dead, her eyes widening to the size of saucers as she took in the monolithic tactical vehicles blocking Julian’s leased Audi.
