His cheek struck the granite, the broken pieces of his gold pen snapping beneath his chest, his bespoke silk tie soaked in the spilled coffee:
SNAP-SNAP.
A pair of heavy-duty, double-locking, high-security stainless-steel military transport restraints ratcheted around the wrists of the Chief Justice of the United States with two sharp, definitive snaps that sounded like twin rifle shots across the silent bunker:
SNAP.
A second set of chains clamped around his ankles—the identical stainless-steel irons used for capital traitors at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth.
Beside him, two federal marshals pinned his private clerk against the wall, heavy transport irons slamming shut around his wrists:
SNAP-CLINK.
Arthur Vance wept into the stone, blood and tears pooling around his split lower lip:
“Abigail… Eleanor… please! Think of the Vance family name! Think of the Court! We built this country together! You can’t let them take the Chief Justice to a military prison in chains!”
I walked to the head of the table.
I stood beside where he lay pinned.
I did not strike his cheek.
I did not raise my voice.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the electronic confirmation receipt for the forty-two-thousand-dollar Mediterranean cruise—the receipt stamped with the bold crimson word: CANCELLED:
SLIP.
I laid the cancelled voucher flat across the nape of Arthur Vance’s silver neck:
TINK.
“You told your sister four hours ago, Arthur, that seven grandchildren on a vacation was an odd-numbered nightmare,” Abigail Mercer whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable decree that sealed forty years of dynastic treason into solid rock forever:
“You told them Emma could go to a municipal park.”
I leaned down until my clear amber-brown eyes filled the Chief Justice’s entire field of vision:
“You were right about one thing, Arthur.”
“The numbers were odd.”
“Because you forgot to count the auditor.”
“The cruise is canceled.”
“The house is seized.”
“The gates are closed.”
“And around here…”
I pointed toward Uncle David:
“…nobody ever, ever… makes my daughter feel small again.”
CLICK-CLACK.
The two federal marshals hauled Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance to his feet by his armpits, marching him down the greenstone corridor in waist-chains and leg-irons toward the armored transport BearCats waiting on the East Front Plaza:
SCREEECH.
Behind him were marched the corporate defense raiders and Swiss banking partners, their designer shoes dragging through the drywall dust on the floorboards, leaving long, jagged, gray streaks across the stone as they were hauled toward the waiting tactical vans:
CRASH-ROAR-PANT.
