At 2:03 a.m., my dad texted: "Grab your sister and run. Don’t trust your mother."

"No!" Mom screamed, her professional composure shattering instantly as she lunged across the console to rip the flash drive from the port.

But the system locked down mechanically. A heavy steel guard slammed shut over the USB slot, sealing the drive inside the terminal's mainframe.

At that exact moment, the low, rhythmic thrumming of heavy aircraft rotors began to vibrate through the wooden floorboards of the lookout tower. The sound grew deafeningly loud, rattling the old glass windows until they hummed in their frames.

The lead operative rushed to the window, peering out into the swirling snowstorm. "Command, we have an unauthorized air asset overhead! Repeat, unmarked heavy transport incoming!"

Through the thick white veil of the storm, two massive searchlights cut through the darkness, bathing the clearing around the tower in a blinding, clinical white glare. Painted on the side of the hovering federal transport helicopters were the bold, unmistakable letters of the Department of Justice Cyber-Terrorism Task Force.

"Drop your weapons! Federal agents! Do not move!" a voice boomed from the chopper’s exterior PA system, echoing off the mountain walls like thunder.

The two tactical operatives froze, looking at each other, then back at Mom. The absolute authority she had commanded just seconds before had completely evaporated. She grabbed her comms unit, her fingers frantically tapping codes, but the device emitted a flat, dying buzz.

SIGNAL JAMMED, the little screen read.

"You think this changes anything?" Mom snarled, turning her cold glare back toward me. She reached inside her coat, her hand darting toward a concealed holster beneath her arm.

Before she could draw her weapon, the cabin door was kicked wide open with a tremendous crash.

Uncle Marcus stood in the doorway, flanked by three heavily armed federal agents in tactical gear with federal badges clearly displayed on their vests. Marcus was holding a heavy riot shotgun, his expression fierce and unyielding.

"It’s over, Elena," Marcus shouted over the roar of the helicopter rotors outside. "The perimeter is locked down. Every shell company, every asset transfer, and every false identity file has just been mirrored to federal servers across three continents."

One of the federal agents stepped forward swiftly, grabbing Mom’s arms and pinning them behind her back with heavy steel handcuffs. She didn't struggle, but her eyes burned with a venomous fury as she was shoved toward the door. As she passed me, she didn't say a word—just stared with a look that promised this was far from finished.

Once she was led out into the custody of the agents below, the tension in the room seemed to drain out all at once. I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for six months.