“Where is the executed Alligator Alley covenant?”
“Your nephew Mark Vance, your sister Brenda, and their commercial conspirators are in federal transport chains at the holding facility in Miramar, Chief Justice,” I answered softly.
My voice had no microphone.
Yet it filled that twenty-foot concrete vault with forty decibels of pure, unyielding, polar diamond:
“The bedroom ambush in Fort Myers was terminated four hours ago.”
“The communications logs have been decrypted by naval intelligence.”
“The sixty billion dollars in diverted defense reserves was frozen in Zurich.”
“The wireless camera live-stream and the four-million-dollar insurance policy dated two days in the future have been logged as capital felony evidence under Title Eighteen.”
“And I came to Washington to return your family’s conveyance petition.”
CHAPTER 9: THE AUDIT ON THE BLACK GRANITE
I walked down the twenty-foot center aisle of the West Conference Room.
My leather boots left dark, geometric tread marks across the greenstone floorboards:
