SLIP.
I laid the cold brass key flat across the nape of Arthur Vance’s silver neck:
TINK.
“You told your nephew forty years ago, Arthur, that an un-noticed cleaning woman could be discarded while you laundered defense reserves,” Colonel Clara Mercer whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable decree that sealed forty years of dynastic treason into solid rock forever:
“You told him that I needed permission to take a glass from the cabinet.”
I leaned down until my clear slate-gray eyes filled the Chief Justice’s entire field of vision:
“You were right about one thing, Arthur.”
“I took the key.”
“I unlocked the bedrock.”
“And tonight…”
I pointed toward Uncle David:
“…the transport flies straight to Fort Leavenworth.”
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:
