“Pour wine on her dress, lose the rings, whatever we have to do—she doesn’t deserve him.”
“You told yourself that seventy billion dollars in Swiss debt could overwrite eighty years of honest naval bedrock.”
I leaned down until my clear hazel eyes filled the former Chief Justice’s entire field of vision:
“You were right about one thing, Arthur.”
“The wedding was redesigned.”
“The audit is complete.”
“And that little conversation your granddaughter had in room four-sixteen last night…”
I tapped the titanium key against his collar:
“**…just audited your entire seventy-billion-dollar dynasty into Fort Leavenworth.**”
“And tonight…”
I pointed toward Uncle David:
**“…the transport flies straight to Fort Leavenworth.”**
CLICK-CLACK.
The two federal marshals hauled Former Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance, Julian Vance, Vanessa Reed, and Kendra Vance to their feet by their armpits, marching them in waist-chains and leg-irons toward the secondary tactical transport BearCat:
*SCREEECH.*
Behind them were marched the eight Apex contractors and the three Swiss factoring litigators, their designer Italian loafers dragging through the slurry on the dock, leaving long, jagged, gray streaks across the asphalt as they were hauled toward the waiting tactical vans:
