Paula was pinned against the wall, her hands locked in cuffs, sobbing in wild, unhinged hysterics.
Special Agent Marcus Vance stepped over Diego’s squirming, handcuffed frame, stopping beside my bed.
Marcus reached into his pocket, pulled out an unsealed, gold-embossed federal capias warrant bearing the raised seal of the **President of the United States** and the **United States Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court (FISC)**:
“Diego Vance. Paula Sterling. Arthur Vance.”
Marcus read the federal charges with the clinical cadence of an executioner:
* **One count of Attempted Premeditated First-Degree Murder of an Unborn Child under Title 18 of the United States Code, Section 1841.**
* **Twelve counts of Interstate Distribution and Administration of Unapproved Chemical Weapon Agents under Title 18, Section 175.**
* **Sixteen counts of Transnational Fiduciary Fraud, Grand Inheritance Theft, and Corporate Extortion under the RICO Act.**
* **And one count of Seditious Conspiracy to Defraud the United States Bankruptcy Courts under Title 18, Section 152.**
“Your bail is permanently denied under special federal emergency protocol.”
“Every bank account, every luxury property, the house on Elm Street, and all corporate assets registered to Vance-Sterling Logistics have been seized under sovereign federal asset forfeiture.”
“Federal marshals. Remove the prisoners from this facility.”
As the tactical operators dragged Diego toward the door, his expensive leather boots scuffing uselessly across the linoleum, he turned his bruised, tear-streaked face back toward the examination table, crying out into the sterile air in raw, suffocating agony:
“LAURA! PLEASE! TELL THEM THIS WAS A DOMESTIC DISPUTE! LAURA, I AM THE FATHER OF YOUR BABY! YOU CAN’T LET THEM BURY ME IN ADX FLORENCE!”
I did not flinch.
I reached down with my right hand, taking the warm, sterile paper towel Dr. Salinas handed me, and slowly wiped the cold blue ultrasound gel from my skin.
I smoothed my dress down over my four-month pregnant belly, feeling the distinct, miraculous flutter of life moving beneath my palm.
“You are not a father, Diego,” I said softly.
“You were only an obstacle that my child survived.”
The heavy wooden doors of the examination room swung shut behind him with an echoing, concussive, and sovereign *THUD*.
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