"It was an eyesore, Harold!" Margaret shrieked, her face mottled with red, ugly blotches of panic and indignation. "It smelled of motor oil! It leaked on the concrete! We live in a respectable subdivision! The neighbors have manicured lawns and two-car garages with epoxy floors! You spent forty hours a month rubbing wax into seventy-year-old fenders while Beverly and Trevor took vacations to Cabo! I gave you thirty-six years of my life! I raised our children! I managed this household! I had a right to fifty-five thousand dollars!"
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A sharp, concussive siren whoop sliced through the quiet neighborhood, echoing off the pine ridges like a hunting horn.
Down Kanuga Road, the blue and red strobe arrays of six North Carolina State Highway Patrol cruisers flashed through the autumn trees, their high-intensity LEDs painting the yellow leaves in violent, pulsing arcs of emergency crimson.
Behind the patrol cars, flanked by two unmarked black Chevrolet Suburbans bearing federal government plates, was a thirty-foot enclosed aluminum transport trailer carrying the gold seal of the United States Army Transportation Museum at Fort Eustis.
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