PART 2: The rain continued to pour, pounding heavily against the pavement, but inside the perimeter of black SUVs, not a single man moved.
Grant stood frozen on the covered porch, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. The smug, arrogant posture he had maintained for years vanished in an instant. He looked at the line of tall, broad-shouldered men dressed in tailored charcoal suits, their expressions unreadable, their postures disciplined and lethal.
“W-who are you?” Grant managed to stammer, his voice cracking under the weight of the sudden tension. “This is private property! I’ll call the police!”
My father didn’t even blink. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t look angry in the way normal people show anger. His expression was a wall of cold, unyielding ice.
“Call them,” Arthur Vance said quietly. His voice carried effortlessly over the sound of the thunder. “Call Chief Miller. Ask him if he’s coming to help you.”
Grant reached into his pocket, his knuckles white as he pulled out his phone. His fingers fumbled over the screen. He dialed a direct line—a high-ranking contact in the local precinct he often bragged about knowing.
He put the phone to his ear. The line rang twice before a voice answered.
“Grant? Why are you calling me at this hour?”
“Chief! I have armed men on my front lawn!” Grant yelled, trying to regain some semblance of authority. “They’re trespassing! Send units immediately!”
There was a brief pause on the line. Then, the Chief’s tone changed completely—dropping into a hushed, rigid panic.
“Grant… are there black SUVs outside your house?”
Grant blinked, looking over the row of polished vehicles. “Yes! Three of them! Who the hell are these people?”
“Listen to me very carefully,” the Chief said, his voice shaking. “Do not move. Do not raise your voice. Do not make a single sudden motion. If Arthur Vance is standing on your lawn, God Himself cannot help you. We are not coming.”
The line went dead.
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