Chapter 4 - THE DEPUTY’S VISITAt 11:58 PM, two sharp beams of white light cut through the dense pine trees at the end of the long driveway.
A marked county sheriff’s cruiser pulled slowly up to the front gravel circle. The engine idling was loud in the quiet night, its exhaust forming thick white clouds in the cool air.
Through my thermal monocular, I watched the driver’s side door open.
A tall, heavy-set man in a uniform stepped out. Deputy Frank Miller. He was holding a heavy Maglite flashlight in his left hand, his right hand resting casually on the butt of his holstered sidearm.
He looked up at the darkened house, his heat signature glowing bright orange against the cool stone facade.
He frowned, tapping his radio on his shoulder.
“Daniel?” Miller’s voice echoed across the quiet porch. “Power’s out down here. You got a blown fuse?”
Silence.
Miller took three steps up the stone porch, shining his flashlight through the glass front doors. The beam washed across the foyer, bouncing off the polished hardwood floor.
“Daniel?” Miller called out again, his tone shifting from casual check-in to cautious alertness. “Your gates were open. Speak up if you’re in there.”
He reached down, unsnapped the leather retention strap on his holster, and drew his Glock 17.
He pulled a master key from his pocket—proof that his involvement in Daniel’s operation was long-standing and fully integrated—inserted it into the front deadbolt, and turned it.
The heavy oak door swung open with a soft creak.
Miller stepped into the dark foyer, holding his flashlight extended in a tactical grip beside his gun. He moved with the slow, sloppy posture of a man who had not faced real opposition in twenty years.
“Daniel?” Miller murmured, taking three steps past the entryway.
I stood three feet behind him, tucked completely inside the recessed doorway of the library, blending into the dark shadow.
“Drop the weapon, Deputy,” I said quietly.
Miller spun around with a violent jerk, sweeping his flashlight toward my voice.
Before his light could catch my face, I stepped inside his guard. My left hand struck his wrist, forcing the flashlight beam upward into the ceiling, while my right hand drove the barrel of my Sig Sauer directly against the soft skin beneath his chin.
“Do not move,” I commanded, my voice dropping into the absolute, icy authority of a general officer on a firing line. “If you pull that trigger, your family will receive a line-of-duty death notification by sunrise.”
Miller froze instantly. His breathing turned loud, ragged, and frantic. The heat signature of his face on my monocular turned bright red as his blood pressure spiked.
“Who... who the fuck are you?” Miller gasped, his eyes wide with terror as he tried to see my face behind the blinding wash of his own flashlight.
“I am Daniel’s new wife,” I said. “And you are currently trespassing on an active federal tactical containment zone.”
“You’re crazy...” Miller stammered. “Daniel said you were some quiet desk worker from D.C.—!”
“Daniel’s intelligence gathering was catastrophically flawed,” I interrupted smoothly. “Reach down with your left hand, unbuckle your gun belt, and drop it onto the floor. If your right thumb so much as twitches on that grip, I will execute a defense response.”
Miller swallowed hard, his throat pressing against the cold steel of my barrel. Slowly, trembling, he unbuckled his heavy leather duty belt and let it fall to the floor with a heavy metallic clatter.
“Kick it into the corner,” I ordered.
May you like
He kicked the belt away.
“Now,” I said, pulling a second pair of steel cuffs from his own belt loop. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back. You and I are going to have a conversation about Rachel.”
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