My home.
A modest, three-bedroom brick-and-cedar mid-century ranch sitting on a quarter-acre cul-de-sac beneath two towering blue spruces in the Applewood neighborhood of Lakewood.
“Look at the perimeter layout, Sebastian,” Marcus commanded, his finger tracing three distinct red geometric triangles around my property line:
“Vector One: A black Suburban is parked at the mouth of the cul-de-sac, blocking vehicular egress. Vector Two: Two riflemen are posted behind your neighbor’s cedar fence to cover the rear patio. Vector Three: Arthur Sterling is sitting in your front living room with your wife, Clara, and your two little girls.”
Marcus paused. His gray eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that could have bored through steel plating:
“Arthur has a handheld dead-man detonator linked to an encrypted thermite incendiary charge planted in the wheel well of his vehicle in your driveway. If his heart stops, or if the radio frequency is broken without an authenticated clearance string… the entire structure is incinerated within forty-five seconds.”
