I stepped down the aluminum air-stair.
My hand-welted leather boots made a clean, concussive tack… tack… tack against the wet marble.
Barnaby walked beside my knee, his dark coat glistening with sleet, his amber eyes locked onto the massive bronze central portals.
Holding my right hand firmly, his small boots stepping onto the stone with fearless, measured cadence, was Leo.
He was bundled in a dark wool pea coat, his right arm tightly gripping the restored red Mack truck.
Beside us walked Claire Reed, her face radiant, her step firm, her hazel eyes steady under the glare of the tactical spotlights.
Behind us walked Vice Admiral David Mercer and United States Attorney Marcus Cooper.
Judge Eleanor Mercer did not offer a polite family greeting.
She turned her slate-gray eyes onto me, looked down at Arthur Mercer’s tweed jacket, down at the unpolished bronze transit pin, down at the five-year-old boy holding his toy truck, and then down to the four-inch titanium key resting in my gloved right hand:
