My daughter whispered, “Dad, help,” and the line went dead. I drove at 100 mph

Within moments, the sound of rotors beating the air filled the sky. A helicopter descended onto the expansive lawn, its downdraft scattering leaves and debris across the pristine property. Eleanor’s eyes widened in disbelief, her mouth agape as the reality of the situation sank in.

Two men in tactical gear emerged from the chopper, their movements precise and efficient. They approached us with an authority that demanded respect, their expressions unreadable beneath dark aviators. This was no ordinary intervention; this was a calculated extraction orchestrated by individuals accustomed to high-stakes operations.

“Sir,” one of the men addressed me with a nod, acknowledging my presence and the gravity of the situation, “we’re here to assist.”