Chapter 7 - Airspace Restricted
Panic erupted inside the Great Hall.
Billionaire hedge-fund managers dived beneath linen-draped tables; socialites in ten-thousand-dollar evening gowns screamed as crystal glasses shattered on the hardwood floor.
"Terrorists!" someone shrieked from the back. "It’s an attack!"
"Quiet! Everyone remain calm!" Governor Harrison bellowed, his own security detail rushing the stage, drawing their concealed handguns and forming a protective diamond around the state executive. "Arthur, what the hell is this? Is Westbridge under attack?"
"I... I don't know!" Warren cried, his pristine composure completely shattered. His bowtie was askew, his face pasty white as he gripped the edges of the podium to keep from falling. "Hendricks was supposed to have the gates locked! We have private security!"
"Your private security is currently disarmed and face-down on the lawn, Warren," a booming voice echoed over the tactical loudspeakers mounted to the lead Black Hawk outside.
The sound was so loud, so concussive, that it shook the dust from the rafters.
"Federal airspace over Westbridge Academy has been closed by order of the Department of Defense. All exits are sealed. Anyone attempting to leave the premises will be detained under federal military authority."
Senator Edward Sterling’s face turned an ashen shade of gray. He grabbed his brother’s phone from his pocket, his hands shaking so violently he dropped it twice. "I'm calling the Secretary of Defense right now. This is an illegal military occupation on state soil! I’ll have whoever authorized this court-martialed by dawn!"
Before Sterling could dial, the heavy, ten-foot-tall double doors at the entrance of the Great Hall were not merely opened—they were kicked off their latch with an explosive wooden crack.
A squad of eight Military Police officers in full combat kit, carrying tactical shotguns and carbines at the low-ready, entered in a textbook tactical breach, peeling left and right to secure the entrance. Behind them came two federal prosecutors in dark suits, flanked by Lieutenant Colonel Rebecca Thorne of the Army Criminal Investigation Division.
The room fell into a terrified, breathless hush. The only sound was the thundering beat of the helicopter blades outside and the measured, heavy thump of polished military combat boots approaching the threshold.
Through the clearing smoke and the blinding light of the hallway stepped a single man.
Arthur Warren squinted through the glare, his mind desperately trying to make sense of the nightmare unfolding before his eyes. He expected an FBI director. He expected a Homeland Security strike commander.
He did not expect the man who walked into the room.
Marcus Vance did not hurry. He walked with the slow, deliberate stride of a conqueror entering a fallen citadel.
The four silver stars on his epaulets caught the light of the chandeliers. The rows of valor medals on his chest—the blood-bought honors of thirty years of total war—gleamed against the midnight fabric of his dress uniform. His face was carved from granite, devoid of anger, devoid of mercy, radiating an aura of absolute, crushing authority that sucked the oxygen straight out of the room.
Walking beside him, wearing a white sundress and holding her father’s left hand, was Lily.
She was no longer crying. She held her head high, her small hand safely enclosed within the massive, scar-tissue-hardened grip of the Supreme Commander of US Special Operations.
In the front row, Mrs. Evelyn Carver dropped her champagne flute. The crystal shattered into a thousand pieces against the parquet floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the dead-silent hall.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her knees shook so violently that she had to grab the back of a banquet chair to keep from collapsing.
*The mechanic.*
*The peasant with the broken pickup truck.*
*The powerless single father.*
Principal Arthur Warren stepped back from the podium, his foot catching on the speaker cord, nearly sending him sprawling. His eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated horror.
"Vance...?" Warren whispered, the word escaping his lips in a ragged gasp. "You... you're..."
Governor Harrison stared at the four stars on Marcus’s shoulders, then at the face of the man he had seen briefing the President of the United States on national television during the embassy evacuation crisis six months ago.
The Governor’s eyes went wide. He shoved his own security detail aside, stepped off the stage, and stood rigidly at attention.
"General Vance," Governor Harrison stammered, his voice trembling with genuine awe and terror. "Sir... we had no idea you were in the state. What... what is the meaning of this military deployment?"
Marcus didn't even look at the Governor. His gaze was locked entirely on Arthur Warren and Evelyn Carver.
May you like
"Governor Harrison," Marcus said, his voice quiet, clear, and ringing with absolute doom. "Step aside. You are currently standing in an active crime scene."
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