“And tonight...”
I pointed toward Uncle David:
“...the transport flies straight to Fort Leavenworth.”
CLICK-CLACK.
The two federal marshals hauled Former Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance and Blake Haron to their feet by their armpits, marching them in waist-chains and leg-irons toward the secondary tactical transport BearCat:
SCREEECH.
Behind them were marched the eight Apex contractors and the three Swiss factoring litigators, their designer Italian loafers dragging through the slurry on the dock, leaving long, jagged, gray streaks across the asphalt as they were hauled toward the waiting tactical vans:
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CRASH-ROAR-PANT.
The heavy double cargo doors of the transport vehicles slammed shut behind them with an authoritative, airtight, pneumatic THUD.
The bluff intake returned to absolute, ringing silence.
The only sound left was the clean, cool rain falling over the limestone, the steady breathing of Admiral Mercer beside us, and the rhythmic tack... tack... tack of his chronometer watch on his wrist.
