billion dollars in sovereign defense reserves have reverted in absolute, un-divided fee simple unto Colonel Helen Eleanor Mercer and Cadet Julian Arthur Mercer in perpetuity!”
Richard Mitchell wept into the floorboards, blood, scotch, and tears pooling around his split lower lip:
“Helen… please!
Look at me!
I am Julian’s father!
We raised him together!
You can’t let them take me to a military prison in chains!”
Julian walked over to where his father lay pinned.
He stood tall, six feet two inches of lean, combat-rebuilt Marine architecture, looking down at the man who had mocked him for eighteen years.
Julian reached into his pocket, pulled out the silver key to the motorized wheelchair he had sat in since childhood:
*SLIP.*
Julian laid the wheelchair ignition key flat across the nape of Richard Mitchell’s neck:
*TINK.*
“You told my mother this morning, Dad,” Julian whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable decree that sealed eighteen years of domestic cruelty into solid rock forever:
“That you dreamed of raising a boy who played football.”
“You told her that my wheelchair was her personal failure.”
Julian leaned down until his clear slate-gray eyes filled his father’s entire field of vision:
“You were right about one thing, Dad.”
“I never played football.”
“I learned to command the bedrock.”
“And tonight…”
Julian pointed toward Uncle David:
“…you can sit in the wheelchair while the marshals roll you into Fort Leavenworth.”
CLICK-CLACK.
Two SOG tactical operators stepped forward in fluid, synchronized mechanical velocity:
Their gloved hands hauled Richard Mitchell and Evelyn Mitchell to their feet by their armpits, ratcheting heavy-duty stainless-steel military transport restraints around their wrists with sharp, definitive snaps:
