Chapter 3 - THE SINS OF THE SONSThe rest of the household was rounded up in under three minutes.
Brian and Scott were dragged out of the west wing bedrooms in their boxer shorts, screaming curses and thrashing against operators who handled them with the brutal, casual efficiency of baggage handlers throwing cheap suitcases. They were big men—high school football stars who had coasted through life on their father's bank accounts and local immunity, accustomed to bullying anyone smaller than them.
Now, pinned face-down against the marble entryway floor with tactical zip-ties cutting into their wrists, they were whimpering like beaten dogs.
"Get these freaks off me! Dad! Tell them who we are!" Brian screamed, spitting blood onto the Italian tile as an operator’s boot rested lightly between his shoulder blades.
Arthur was hauled to his feet by his collar and shoved into a leather armchair opposite my desk chair. He was shaking violently now, the alcohol completely worn out of his system by raw, primal terror.
"Where is Christine?" I asked, looking around the cavernous room.
Arthur swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically. "She... she went to her mother's sister in Knoxville when she heard about the... the accident. She didn't want any part of this, David. She was scared of you!"
"Scared of me?" A dark, humorless chuckle escaped my lips. "She was married to me for twelve years and never once asked why I traveled to the Middle East for six months out of every year. She thought I sold software to government contractors. She had no idea her husband was the man foreign intelligence agencies put ghost markers on."
I stood up, walking slowly toward Brian, who glared up at me with venomous hatred in his eyes.
"You like pinning people down, Brian?" I asked quietly. "You like using your size against a seven-year-old child who couldn't even reach your belt?"
"She broke a priceless vase!" Brian snarled, his arrogance flaring up despite the gun barrels pointed at his head. "She was running through the trophy room like a wild animal! Dad told us to teach her some manners! It was just a little roughhousing—"
Crack.
The sound of my combat boot connecting with Brian's ribs echoed through the vaulted room like a pistol shot. He let out a shrieking gasp of agony, curling inward as the air was violently forced from his lungs.
Scott started crying. "Please! Don't kill us! Please, David!"
"Kill you?" I looked down at them with absolute pity. "Killing you would be merciful. And you don't get mercy tonight. Not from me."
I turned back to Arthur, who was clutching the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were translucent.
"You wanted to know who I really am, Arthur? Let me introduce you to my real family."
I tapped my earpiece. "Task Force Vanguard, bring in the package."
The heavy front doors swung open again. This time, it wasn't operators carrying weapons. It was a pair of federal prosecutors accompanied by senior agents from the Internal Revenue Service Criminal Investigation division and the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s counter-intelligence division.
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They weren't here for a domestic assault.
They were here for the empire Arthur Vance had built on treason, bribery, and blood money.
