My parents sold everything to rescue my golden-child brother from a massive debt. Then, during a Level 5 blizzard, they crashed a van into the gates of my remote mountain resort. “We’re your parents. We’re moving in,” Dad demanded. He thought my life’s work was his “collateral.” He threatened to ruin my business if I didn’t help pay off the ruthless men hunting my brother. When I secretly opened the manila folder they brought, I realized they had brought something far more dangerous to my door.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I set my mug down with a sharp clatter and rushed to the monitors. The high-definition night-vision cameras cutting through the blinding snow did not show a lost hiker or a wandering elk.

It was a vehicle. A battered, rust-spotted Ford transit van had just smashed through the decorative wooden outer gate at the bottom of the private drive. It was fishtailing wildly up the steep, icy incline toward the main courtyard. One of its headlights was smashed, and the front bumper dragged against the asphalt, throwing sparks into the whiteout conditions.

Who the hell is driving up a mountain in a blizzard? I thought, my mind racing through protocols.

I keyed the radio to the security booth at the lower ridge, but only static hissed back. The storm was already interfering with the signals. I watched the screen as the van slammed to a halt in the center of the pristine cobblestone courtyard, dangerously close to the antique bronze fountain.