“You have committed fourteen separate capital felonies under Title Eighteen of the United States Code by breaching a closed conference of the Supreme Court with an armed tactical detachment.”
Arthur Vance pointed his gold signet ring toward the doorway:
“The Marshal of the Supreme Court and the United States Secret Service have already been notified.
Your naval commissions, your military command, and your freedom will be vacated before sunrise.”
The Chief Justice turned his cold, unblinking slate-gray eyes forty-five degrees to his right:
And then… his gaze locked onto the four-inch antique solid-titanium transponder key resting in my hand.
The linen napkin in Arthur Vance’s fingers did not fall, but the muscle beneath his left cheekbone gave a single, violent, microscopic twitch:
*TICK.*
“Where is Mark…?”
Arthur whispered.
The velvet cello was gone.
The word was paper-thin.
It was the dry, whistling rasp of an ancient water pump sucking air in an empty cistern:
