I tapped the titanium key against his collar:
“...just audited your entire thirty-one-billion-dollar empire into Fort Leavenworth.”
“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, Marcus Alexander Hale, and Vivian Cross 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:
CRASH-ROAR-PANT.
The heavy double cargo doors of the transport vehicles slammed shut behind them with an authoritative, airtight, pneumatic THUD.
The shoreline clearing returned to absolute, ringing silence.
The digital countdown above Marcus Cooper’s tactical wrist console read: 23:59:14 EST.
Forty-six seconds remaining until midnight!
