Chapter 3 - The Impact on the Tile
"You’re under arrest for impersonating a federal officer, resisting law enforcement, and criminal trespass," Michael growled, his voice rising in triumph as he felt the steel lock onto her wrist. "Let’s see how your fake 'Pentagon' handles a real county lockup!"
General Mitchell did not fight the steel cuff. She kept her posture rigid, her breath slow and controlled, absorbing the physical pressure without giving Michael the satisfaction of a struggle.
"Michael, look at the phone!" Emma whimpered from the refrigerator, her voice breaking into hysterical sobs. "Please, Michael, listen to me! She has orders! She showed me her papers this morning!"
"Shut up, Emma!" Michael barked without looking back, his eyes locked on his stepdaughter. "You’ve been letting this girl manipulate you her whole life! She’s a fraud! Tyler, you getting all of this?"
"Every frame, Dad," Tyler laughed, leaning over the counter, his smartphone screen recording the scene in crisp high definition. "This video is going to ruin her. She won't be able to show her face in this state ever again."
Michael sneered, grabbing the chain of the handcuffs connected to General Mitchell’s wrist. Instead of pulling her toward the front door, he dragged her forcibly sideways toward one of the heavy, solid-oak kitchen chairs positioned near the corner of the blue table.
He looped the free cuff through the thick, vertical wooden slats of the chair’s backrest and snapped the second steel loop shut with another loud, decisive CLACK.
"Michael, stop!" General Mitchell said, her voice remaining firm and authoritative, though the physical angle put an extreme, painful strain on her shoulder joint.
"You don't command anyone here!" Michael roared.
With a sudden, vicious push of his boot, Michael kicked the base of the heavy oak chair sideways.
The sudden shift in momentum tore General Mitchell off balance. Bound tightly to the falling piece of furniture, she was slammed hard onto the beige tile floor.
THUD.
The impact vibrated through the floorboards of the entire kitchen. The heavy oak chair crashed onto its side, pinning General Mitchell’s left arm beneath its weight, her wrist twisted at an agonizing angle against the steel cuff.
Emma let out a piercing, horror-struck scream, dropping to her knees on the floor, her hands reaching out in vain. "MITCHELL! OH GOD, MITCHELL!"
At the counter, Tyler’s smug, mocking laughter instantly died in his throat. His hand jerked, his smartphone dipping for a second as the brutal reality of the physical violence unfolded before him. The arrogant sneer on his fair face collapsed into a look of stunned, uneasy shock as he watched his step-sister crash against the hard tile.
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Michael stepped over the broken ceramic shards, standing directly over General Mitchell’s fallen form. He lowered the barrel of his 9mm service weapon, aiming it straight down at her head from two feet away, his chest heaving with exertion, his face dark with self-righteous power.
"Who do you think you are?" Michael snarled, his voice trembling with unchecked rage.
