Chapter 4 - The Intercept Protocol-4
Back in our stripped-down suburban home, the silence was broken by the sharp, concussive sound of Brandon slamming his fist against the master bedroom wall. The plaster cracked under the impact, leaving a jagged indentation in the white drywall.
"Damn it, Maya!" he screamed into the empty space, his face flushed red with a volatile mix of panic and rage.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing his chief legal advisor, Edward Croft.
"Edward! I need you at my house right now!" Brandon blurted out the second the call connected. "My wife has completely lost her mind! She cleaned out the house, wiped the accounts, and left some bogus federal papers in the bedroom! She took the kids!"
There was a long, heavy silence on the line. When Croft finally spoke, his voice lacked its usual smooth, corporate confidence; it was clipped, hurried, and noticeably strained.
"Brandon... where are you calling from?"
"I'm at the house! In the bedroom! What the hell is going on with our Vanguard reserves? My mobile banking app says my primary accounts are quarantined!"
"Brandon, listen to me very carefully," Croft whispered urgently through the receiver. "Get out of that house immediately. Do not grab your bag, do not look for paperwork, and do not drive your personal vehicle. Step out the back door and—"
Before Croft could finish his sentence, the call was abruptly severed by a high-pitched digital whine.
Outside the house, the quiet suburban street was suddenly flooded with the low, heavy rumble of multiple diesel engines. Brandon ran to the bare bedroom window and looked down through the glass.
Four matte-black, un-marked Ford Expeditions pulled up against the curb, blocking the driveway from both ends. Before the vehicles had even come to a complete halt, eight heavily armed federal tactical operators clad in dark navy assault gear with high-intensity searchlights flooded the front lawn.
"Federal agents! Brandon Merrick! Step out onto the front porch with your hands visible!" a voice bellowed through a high-gain bullhorn, echoing off the surrounding brick houses.
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Brandon backed away from the window, his breath coming in shallow, frantic gasps. He looked at his cell phone; the screen was flashing an emergency crimson text overlay: SYSTEM LOCKDOWN. ALL CLEARANCE KEYS REVOKED BY ORDER OF THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT.
He scrambled toward the rear emergency stairs, but before his foot touched the top step, the heavy mahogany back door below was shattered inward with a violent, hydraulic screech of tearing metal.
