Ms.
Harrow let out an un-human, animalistic shriek from the whiteboard:
*“CALL ARTHUR!
CALL THE CHIEF JUSTICE!
HE HAS THE APPELLATE IMMUNITY!
HE CONVENES THE COURT AT ZERO-TWO-HUNDRED HOURS!”*
She lunged toward her designer handbag resting on her desk, clawing for her encrypted satellite transceiver:
*CLACK.*
Scout did not wait for a command.
The eighty-four-pound Belgian Malinois moved in an explosive, two-hundred-millisecond linear blur:
His jaws clamped around the leather strap of Ms.
Harrow’s handbag with one hundred and forty pounds of crushing hydraulic force, ripping the bag from her grip and pinning it flat against the floorboards beneath his paws with a deep, menacing, sixty-cycle subterranean growl:
*grrrrrrr.*
Before Ms.
Harrow could pull back, two armed federal marshals stepped through the doorway in fluid, synchronized mechanical velocity:
Their gloved hands caught Ms.
Harrow by her tweed lapels and her right wrist in mid-flight, spun her frame one hundred and eighty degrees against the whiteboard, and drove her face down onto the chalk tray with three hundred pounds of linear kinetic leverage:
*SLAM.*
Her tortoiseshell hair clip snapped under the impact, forty-eight pieces of plastic popping across the linoleum:
*click-clatter-roll.*
A pair of heavy-duty, double-locking, high-security stainless-steel military transport restraints ratcheted around Ms.
Harrow’s wrists with two sharp, definitive snaps that sounded like twin rifle shots across the silent classroom:
*SNAP.*
A second set of chains clamped around her ankles—the identical stainless-steel irons used for capital traitors at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth:
*SNAP-CLINK.*
The twenty-two third-graders sat with their eyes wide, completely silent.
Ben Reed stepped to the front of the room, holding eight-year-old Clara in his arms.
He reached into his uniform pocket, pulled out the red sticky note Ms.
Harrow had forced Clara to read yesterday—the note bearing the words: *I am sorry I gave the class information I could not prove.*
*SLIP.*
Ben laid the sticky note flat across the nape of Ms.
Harrow’s neck:
*TINK.*
“You asked for proof yesterday, Ms.
Harrow,” Staff Sergeant Ben Reed whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable decree that sealed four decades of dynastic treason into solid rock forever:
“You told my daughter that she gave information she could not prove.”
Ben looked at the twenty-two children in Room 3B:
“Scout is verified.”
“The Marine Corps is verified.”
