Arthur Sterling-Vance collapsed flat onto the wet concrete, his vicuña greatcoat soaking in the slurry and chemical runoff, his hands clawing at his chest as he wept ragged, hysterical tears of pure, un-calibrated ruin:
“David... please! Look at me! I was the Chief Justice of the Seventh Circuit! You cannot put a former federal jurist in Leavenworth chains on an industrial pier!”
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CLACK.
Two SOG tactical operators stepped forward across the floor:
Their gloved hands caught Arthur Sterling-Vance, Marcus Hale, and Vivian Cross by their collars, spun their frames ninety degrees against the crane bumper, and ratcheted heavy-duty, double-locking, high-security stainless-steel military transport restraints around their wrists with six sharp, definitive snaps:
SNAP.
SNAP.
SNAP.
SNAP.
SNAP.
SNAP.
A second set of chains clamped around their ankles—the identical stainless-steel irons used for capital traitors at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth:
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SNAP-CLINK.
With one sharp, professional motion, the female tactical operator stripped the four-million-dollar diamond ring from Vivian’s trembling left hand and the gold chronometer from Marcus’s wrist, dropping the unearned luxuries into a heavy mylar evidence bag:
