*SLAM-SLAM-SLAM.*
Through the billowing white clouds of tactical propellant…
Illuminating the entire second-floor landing in forty thousand lumens of clinical, blinding white tactical halogen…
Advanced twelve operators in sterile dark-charcoal Nomex drysuits, Level IV boron-carbide plate carriers, and Ops-Core ballistic helmets.
Across their chests hung suppressed SIG Sauer MCX Rattlers, their weapon-mounted PEQ-15 infrared lasers cutting through the bedroom’s dusty air in twelve razor-sharp needles of incandescent crimson light:
“FEDERAL INQUEST!
CORDON ESTABLISHED!
DROP THE WEAPON!
DROP IT NOW OR BE NEUTRALIZED!”
Mark’s eyes bulged from his skull.
His knees liquefied.
The SIG Sauer slipped from his sweat-slicked fingers, striking the laminate floor with a dull, hollow clatter:
*CLACK.*
“DON’T SHOOT!”
Mark screamed, throwing his hands above his head, falling to both knees beside my mother’s mattress: “I’M HER HUSBAND!
THIS IS A DOMESTIC DISPUTE!
WE WERE JUST TALKING!”
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
The sound of hand-welted naval leather bridge boots stepping through the pulverized woodwork of the hallway was unhurried, rhythmic, and concussive.
Walking through the breach…
His service bridge coat unbuttoned to reveal the four solid-silver stars of the **Chief of Naval Operations**, his broad chest covered in ten dense rows of decorations including the Navy Cross, the Silver Star, and the Distinguished Service Medal…
