Harrow’s neck:
*TINK.*
“You asked for proof yesterday, Ms.
Harrow,” Staff Sergeant Ben Reed whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable decree that sealed four decades of dynastic treason into solid rock forever:
“You told my daughter that she gave information she could not prove.”
Ben looked at the twenty-two children in Room 3B:
“Scout is verified.”
“The Marine Corps is verified.”
“The uniform is verified.”
Ben leaned down until his clear slate-gray eyes filled the teacher’s entire field of vision:
“And tonight…”
He pointed toward the hallway:
“…the transport flies straight to the Supreme Court.”
CLICK-CLACK.
The two federal marshals hauled Evelyn Harrow to her feet by her armpits, marching her down the center aisle of Room 3B in waist-chains and leg-irons toward the armored tactical transport BearCats waiting outside the main entrance:
*SCREEECH.*
Behind her were marched her forged curriculum files, her encrypted satellite transceiver, and her twelve-million-dollar factoring ledgers, sealed inside heavy forensic evidence drums:
