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Title: Content: The Cullinan glided past a private security patrol vehicle idling beneath a jacaranda tree. Inside, two guards sat alert�R4 rifles slung across their chests, Glock 19s holstered at their hips. They recognized him instantly and offered a respectful wave. Quinton returned the gesture with a nod. A quiet satisfaction hummed through his veins. This was his domain. Just ahead, a delivery truck rolled slowly toward him, coming from the opposite direction. Its sides were unmarked. A man walked alongside it, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the street like he was searching for a house number. To the untrained eye, he looked legitimate�confused, maybe even harmless. But to Quinton, something was off. No one ever got lost on Lagoon Drive. The addresses were as clear as the lagoon�s morning tide. GPS worked flawlessly here. Delivery drivers didn�t wander around squinting at gates�not in this neighborhood. Quinton�s instincts flared. His mind broke the scene down in a flash: the slow-moving truck, the too-casual gait of the man with the clipboard, the absence of branding. It all pointed in one direction. He�d been followed. The long arm of the Brazilians had reached home before he could. He felt it�danger blooming in the air likes a thunderclap waiting to strike. His eyes flicked to the gate ahead. He was seconds away from home. But this wasn�t homecoming�it was a trap. Any moment now, the rear doors of that truck would swing open and the men inside would unleash hell. Two options; He could hit the remote, speed through the gate, and pray the system was fast enough to lock them out before they made it onto the property - But if they made it through with him�. No. Too risky; The Cullinan�s armor plating was military-grade, Bulletproof glass and Reinforced undercarriage. He�d paid top dollar for a fortress on wheels. Page Number: Update Page