“Dr. Oay signed an operative certification under Title Fifty National Security Secrecy, Thad,” I spoke across the rotunda.
My voice had no microphone.
Yet it filled that cathedral-ceilinged mortuary with forty decibels of pure, unyielding, polar diamond:
“My kidneys are precisely where my grandfather Arthur Mercer placed them thirty-four years ago.”
“Intact.”
“Functional.”
“And completely sovereign.”
Talia Brennan scrambled backward from the balcony railing, her leather litigation brief dropping from her grip:
*THUD.*
The four hundred pages exploded across the upper stairs, scattering white leaves of legal text through the air like a paper blizzard:
“Thad!” Talia shrieked, her voice cracking into pure, unfiltered terror: “That’s Vice Admiral Mercer! That’s the Chief of Naval Operations! Why is the military command standing in your receiving parlor?!”
“Because this funeral home is not commercial real estate, Talia,” Vice Admiral David Mercer answered, stepping forward until his bridge boots struck the first tread of the grand staircase:
