I looked at the brass house key I had carried in my pocket for eight years:
“You told me nine years ago, Julian,” Colonel Clara Mercer whispered softly:
“That you were tired of carrying dead weight.”
“You told me that some people are born to own, and some are born to clean.”
I leaned down until my clear slate-gray eyes filled his entire field of vision:
“You were right about one thing, Julian.”
“Someone is cleaning today.”
“The fleet is cleaning the Republic.”
“And tonight…”
I pointed toward Uncle David:
“…the transport flies straight to the Supreme Court.”
CLICK-CLACK.
The two federal marshals hauled Julian Vance and his two private security contractors to their feet by their armpits, marching them down the front walkway in waist-chains and leg-irons toward the armored tactical transport BearCats waiting in the rain:
