*click-clatter-roll.*
A pair of heavy-duty, double-locking, high-security stainless-steel military transport restraints ratcheted around Brenda’s wrists with two sharp, definitive snaps that sounded like twin rifle shots across the silent room:
*SNAP.*
A second set of chains clamped around her ankles—the identical stainless-steel irons used for capital traitors at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth:
*SNAP-CLINK.*
Beside her, two federal marshals pinned Mark Vance flat onto his stomach:
*SLAM.*
His linen shirt ripped along the shoulder seams, his gold wedding band popping off his finger and skittering across the floor:
*SNAP-SNAP.*
The transport irons snapped around Mark’s wrists with an authoritative, metallic crunch:
*SNAP.*
And down in the foyer, Heather Vance was marched out of the coat closet in waist-chains and leg-irons by two female federal agents, weeping hysterically into her designer sweater:
*SCREEECH.*
Mark wept into the laminate, spit, blood, and tears pooling around his split lower lip:
“Elena… please!
Look at me!
I am your husband!
Six years!
We built a life!
You can’t let them take me to a military prison in chains!
I was pressured by my mother!
I was pressured by Arthur!”
I walked across the floorboards.
My hand-welted leather field boots made a clean, concussive *tack… tack… tack* against the floor.
