Their high-priced attorney, Bradley Vance, stepped forward to block my path to the witness stand. He was a tall, sleek man smelling of expensive cologne. He sneered, looking down at my dirt-streaked gear.
“Your Honor, this is an absolute circus,” Vance barked, turning to the bench. “This woman is bringing weapons and military theater into a sacred custody hearing. It’s an insult to the court.” He turned back to me, stepping directly into my personal space, and mockingly tapped his polished finger against my ballistic plate. “Take the costume off, little girl. You’re in the real world now.”
Big mistake. Years of muscle memory took over. Before he could blink, I snatched his wrist, twisted it into a tight joint-lock, and slammed him face-first onto the defense table. Papers scattered everywhere as his cheek pressed hard against the polished wood.
“Step back, counselor,” I whispered, my voice ice-cold.
The courtroom erupted. My father jumped up, screaming. Judge Margaret Henderson slammed her gavel down like thunder, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the entire room freeze. “Lieutenant Commander Sterling! Release him immediately and explain yourself before I have you thrown in a military brig!”
