“And around here…”
I looked at Admiral Mercer:
“…nobody ever, ever… touches my son.”
CLICK-CLACK.
The two federal marshals hauled Marcus Sterling to his feet by his armpits, marching him down the alley in waist-chains and leg-irons toward the armored tactical BearCats waiting on Worth Street:
*SCREEECH.*
Behind him were marched his team, their encrypted satellite gear bagged as evidence as they were hauled toward the waiting transport vans:
*CRASH-ROAR-PANT.*
The heavy steel gates of the alley were sealed behind them with yellow tactical crime scene tape and an authoritative, airtight, pneumatic *THUD*.
The alley returned to silence.
The only sound left was the sixty-cycle hum of the helicopter turbines idling on the riverfront, the steady breathing of Admiral Mercer beside me, and the rhythmic *tack… tack… tack* of my father’s chronometer watch on my wrist.
CHAPTER 6: PROLOGUE TO PART 3: THE HIGH CAPITOL AUDIT (THE HOOK TO PART 3)
`23:45:12 EST.`
The subterranean command continuity bunker eighty feet beneath the foundations of the historic Brooklyn Navy Yard—accessible only through the concealed hydraulic iron hatch behind the old timber drydocks—was completely dark except for the amber glow of thirty encrypted tactical monitors.
Outside, the cold November sleet had turned into heavy, silent snow, cloaking the ancient stone piers and the dark waters of the East River in two inches of pristine, un-trodden white velvet.
