**
CHAPTER 7: THE RECKONING IN CHAINS
Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance let out an un-human, animalistic shriek from the bottom of his lungs:
*“NOOOOOOOOOOO!”*
The seventy-six-year-old titan of American law did not look like a statesman now.
He lunged across the banquet table, his black silk robe tearing at the shoulder seams, his manicured hands hooked into claws aimed directly at my face:
“YOU PENNILESS BITCH! I AM THE CHIEF JUSTICE! I AM THE MASTER OF THIS CAPITOL!”
*CLACK.*
Two SOG tactical operators did not draw their sidearms.
The two-hundred-and-twenty-pound tactical operators stepped forward in synchronized, terrifying mechanical precision:
Their gloved hands caught Chief Justice Arthur Vance by his midnight-blue lapels, spun his six-foot-three frame ninety degrees against the banquet table, and drove his face down onto the broken crystal with three hundred pounds of linear kinetic leverage:
*SLAM.*
His cheek struck the wood, the broken pieces of his gold pen snapping beneath his chest, his bespoke silk tie soaked in the spilled champagne:
*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 ballroom:
*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 female federal marshals pinned Gwen Mercer against the fireplace hearth, heavy transport irons slamming shut around her wrists despite her screaming and kicking:
*SNAP-CLINK.*
Gwen shrieked, her emerald gown tearing down the back seam, spit, snot, and mascara running down her chin onto her shattered pearls:
“EVELYN! PLEASE! I’M YOUR SISTER! THINK OF OUR MOTHER! DON’T LET THEM TAKE ME TO A MILITARY BRIG IN CHAINS!”
I walked across the dance floor.
My hand-welted leather field boots made that clean, measured *tack… tack… tack* against the parquet:
*tack… tack… tack.*
I stopped two inches from my sister’s bleeding face.
I did not strike her cheek.
I did not raise my voice.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the photographic print that Liam had developed thirty minutes ago—the photo of Maya smiling in the sun on that Florida beach:
I laid the glossy paper flat across the nape of Gwen Mercer’s neck:
*TINK.*
“You said over dinner tonight, Gwen, that Maya ruined every single vacation picture,” Evelyn Mercer whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable decree that sealed thirty years of domestic jealousy into solid rock forever:
“You told her that no one wanted to look at her.”
I leaned down until my clear slate-gray eyes filled her entire field of vision:
“You were wrong, Gwen.”
“Everyone is looking at her.”
“And around here…”
I turned toward Maya:
“…nobody ever, ever… makes my daughter hide again.”
CLICK-CLACK.
The two federal marshals hauled Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance, Marcus Sterling, and Gwen Mercer to their feet by their armpits, marching them down the center aisle of the Grand Ballroom in waist-chains and leg-irons toward the armored tactical BearCats waiting on Michigan Avenue:
*SCREEECH.*
Behind them 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.*
The heavy double doors of the Grand Ballroom were sealed behind them with yellow tactical crime scene tape and an authoritative, airtight, pneumatic *THUD*.
The room returned to silence.
The only sound left was the sixty-cycle hum of the hotel ventilation ducts, the steady breathing of Admiral Mercer beside me, and the rhythmic *tack… tack… tack* of my grandfather’s chronometer watch on my wrist.
CHAPTER 8: PROLOGUE TO PART 3: THE HIGH CAPITOL AUDIT (THE HOOK TO PART 3)
`23:45:12 CST.`
The subterranean command continuity bunker eighty feet beneath the limestone foundations of our restored family homestead on Forest Avenue in Evanston—accessible only through the concealed hydraulic iron hatch behind the old cedar wine cellar—was completely dark except for the amber glow of thirty encrypted tactical monitors.
