CHAPTER 5: THE DISARMAMENT OF THE NEIGHBOR
Bradley Vance let out an un-human, animalistic shriek from the driveway:
*“DAD! THEY’RE IN THE HOUSE! THEY’RE CUTTING OPEN THE SAFE IN THE STUDY!”*
The boy turned, his flip-flops kicking off his feet as he tried to sprint toward his Ducati to kick it over:
*CLACK.*
Two SOG tactical operators did not draw their sidearms.
The two-hundred-and-twenty-pound tactical operators moved across the wet Bermuda grass in fluid, synchronized, terrifying mechanical velocity:
Their gloved hands caught Bradley Vance by his fleece hood and his right forearm in mid-stride, spun his six-foot frame one hundred and eighty degrees against the greenstone obelisk, and drove his face down onto the cold bronze medallion with four hundred pounds of linear downward kinetic leverage:
His cheek struck the bronze anchor, his nose breaking with an audible, wet crunch that spattered bright crimson blood across the engraved 1944 coordinates:
*CRACK-SMASH.*
A pair of heavy-duty, double-locking, high-security stainless-steel military transport restraints ratcheted around Bradley’s wrists with two sharp, definitive snaps that sounded like twin rifle shots across the silent neighborhood:
*SNAP.*
A second set of chains clamped around his ankles—the identical stainless-steel irons used for capital traitors at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth.
Beside him, two federal marshals pinned Harold Vance against the torn hood of his Escalade:
*SLAM.*
His camel-hair sports coat ripped along the shoulder seams, his French cuffs soaked in his own engine’s leaking coolant:
*SNAP-CLINK.*
The transport irons snapped around Harold’s manicured wrists with an authoritative, metallic crunch:
*SNAP.*
Harold wept into the crumpled steel, blood and tears pooling around his split lower lip:
“Eleanor… please! We’ve been neighbors for twelve years! I went to Robert’s memorial service! You can’t let them put my son in military chains over a few crushed flowers!”
I walked down the porch steps.
My hand-welted leather field boots made a clean, concussive *tack… tack… tack* against the brick.
I stopped two inches from where Bradley lay pinned, his face pressed against my father’s bronze marker.
I did not strike his cheek.
I did not raise my voice.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the crumpled, oil-stained seed packet of red and yellow marigolds Robert had purchased before he went into the hospital—the packet Bradley had run over with his Ducati tire:
*SLIP.*
I laid the paper packet flat across the nape of Bradley Vance’s neck:
