The two Black-Briar contractors in the driveway were pinned against the hood of their own Suburban by six armed federal marshals, their hands forced behind their backs with the concussive, definitive SNAP of heavy-duty stainless-steel transport restraints:
CLICK-CLACK.
Two HRT operators bounded into the living room, their boots leaving clean tracks on the floor, forcing Arthur Sterling face-down onto the braided rug in front of my fireplace:
CLICK-CLACK.
The cold steel clamped around Arthur’s manicured wrists, ratcheting tight against the gold watch chain of his waistcoat:
“ARTHUR VANCE-STERLING,” Detective Sergeant Marcus Vance boomed, stepping over the broken fragments of the Walther pistol:
“UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLORADO AND TITLE EIGHTEEN OF THE UNITED STATES CODE, YOU ARE PLACED UNDER IMMEDIATE ARREST FOR ATTEMPTED PREMEDITATED CAPITAL HOMICIDE, HIGH TREASON AGAINST THE UNITED STATES, ENTERPRISE RACKETEERING (RICO), AND THE FRAUDULENT CONVERSION OF SOVEREIGN DEFENSE ASSETS!”
