Marcus hadn't said anything.
He didn't want problems.
Now she had called the police.
Price stepped closer.
"Turn around."
Marcus remained still.
"Officer, I'm cooperating."
"Turn around."
"You haven't explained why."
"Don't make this harder."
Marcus looked directly at him.
"I'm not."
For a moment, the two men stared at one another.
Then Ellis spoke.
"Daniel, maybe we should verify the property."
Price looked annoyed.
"We'll verify it after we secure the subject."
Marcus heard the word.
Subject.
Not homeowner.
Not resident.
Subject.
His military instincts told him to stay calm.
He knew what escalation looked like.
He knew how quickly a bad situation became irreversible.
So he did something he had learned during years of dangerous operations.
He made himself smaller.
Less threatening.
Slower.
Calmer.
"Officer," Marcus said, "my driver's license is inside the house. You can check the county records. You can check the tax records. You can speak to the neighbor who sold me the property."
Price said:
"You're not giving orders."
"I'm giving you information."
"Turn around."
Marcus sighed.
Then he slowly turned.
His hands remained visible.
Price stepped behind him.
The handcuffs appeared.
Ellis looked uneasy.
"Daniel..."
"Stay back."
The first cuff closed around Marcus's wrist.
Then the second.
Marcus felt the metal tighten.
He said nothing.
Price pulled his hands upward.
Marcus winced.
"Too tight."
"Stop complaining."
Ellis looked at his partner.
"Maybe loosen them."
Price ignored him.
Then a third police vehicle arrived.
A supervisor stepped out.
He looked at Marcus.
Then the house.
Then the fence.
Then the hammer.
He frowned.
"What exactly is happening?"
Price answered:
"Possible burglary."
The supervisor looked confused.
"Possible?"
"Caller said the homeowner was away."
Marcus turned his head.
"I am the homeowner."
The supervisor looked at him.
Then at the house.
Then at the tools.
Something about his expression changed.
"Get his identification."
Price hesitated.
The supervisor's voice became firm.
"Now."
Ellis reached for Marcus's wallet.
He opened it.
He read the license.
Then looked at the house number.
His eyes widened.
"Sergeant..."
The supervisor took the license.
He stared.
Then looked at Marcus.
"You own this property?"
Marcus nodded.
"Yes."
The supervisor looked at Price.
"Take the cuffs off."
Price hesitated.
"But—"
"Now."
Before the cuffs could open, a fourth vehicle turned onto the street.
It was not a police car.
It was a black SUV with government plates.
Then another.
Then a third.
Marcus looked toward the road.
His expression changed.
Because he recognized the convoy.
And he knew exactly who was inside.
The black SUVs stopped almost simultaneously.
Nobody in the neighborhood spoke.
The doors opened.
Men in dark suits stepped onto the street.
They didn't run.
They didn't shout.
They simply moved.
Efficiently.
Quietly.
Professionally.
Marcus recognized the formation immediately.
Protective detail.
One agent opened the rear door of the largest SUV.
A polished black shoe touched the pavement.
Then came the uniform.
Dark blue.
Four stars.
Rows of ribbons.
A chest filled with decorations.
General Samuel Whitaker stepped onto the street.
He was sixty-one.
Tall.
Lean.
Silver-haired.
His face carried the permanent seriousness of someone who had spent decades making decisions where mistakes had consequences.
He looked at the police.
Then at Marcus.
Then at the cuffs.
His expression hardened.
"Who put those on him?"
Nobody answered.
General Whitaker walked forward.
"Remove them."
The supervising officer immediately stepped toward Marcus.
"Yes, sir."
The cuffs opened.
Marcus rubbed his wrists.
Whitaker stopped in front of him.
"You all right?"
Marcus nodded.
"I'm fine."
Whitaker looked at the red marks.
"No, you're not."
Marcus smiled faintly.
"Still stubborn, I see."
Whitaker almost smiled.
"Still lying about being fine, I see."
The officers stared.
Price looked confused.
"You know this man?"
Whitaker turned toward him.
"I've known Marcus Reed for twenty-three years."
Silence.
Marcus glanced at the street.
"Sam."
Whitaker shook his head.
"Don't call me General when we're standing in your yard."
"This isn't your yard."
Whitaker smiled.
"Fair point."
The two men shared a brief look.
There was history between them.
A lot of it.
Price stepped forward.
"General, we received a 911 call."
Whitaker looked at him.
"I know."
"She reported a possible break-in."
"She lied."
Price stiffened.
"Sir?"
Whitaker pointed toward the fence.
"Look around."
Price looked.
Whitaker continued.
"Does this look like a burglary?"
"No."
"Does that look like a crowbar?"
Price glanced at the hammer.
"No."
"Does this look like a man attempting to force entry into a house?"
"No."
Whitaker looked at Marcus.
"Then why was he handcuffed?"
Nobody answered.
The general turned toward his aide.
"Get me the call."
"Yes, General."
The aide stepped aside.
Whitaker looked toward the house across the street.
Caroline Mercer was standing frozen on her porch.
Whitaker saw her.
Then he looked back at Marcus.
"Is that the neighbor?"
Marcus nodded.