FLUTTER.
“There is an extended-stay federal holding annex down in Englewood, Arthur,” Eleanor said softly.
Every syllable was an un-appealable epitaph that sealed forty years of family treason into the dark forever:
“I hear the cells on the north tier have excellent cross-ventilation.”
“And the commissary rate… is precisely eighteen dollars a month.”
“I suggest you see if your cashier’s check… has any validity left.”
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At 14:30 PM, the storm clouds over the Front Range had cleared into an expanse of dark, polished turquoise and blinding, diamond-bright Colorado sun that turned the snow on the distant peaks of Mount Evans into fields of liquid silver.
The cul-de-sac of Willow Court was an operational staging ground of sovereign restoration:
The black Suburbans were gone, hauled away by heavy-duty military recovery flatbeds.
Nick Sterling and Carter Holbrook were sitting in high-security isolation cells at the Denver County Detention Center, facing one hundred and twelve federal counts of enterprise racketeering, attempted murder, and corporate title fraud.
