Chapter 7 - The Breaching of the Threshold
The front entry door of the modest home did not merely open; it was taken off its hinges by a heavy tactical battering ram.
BOOM.
The sound of splintering wood and shattering door frames echoed through the foyer, instantly followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots flooding the entryway.
"FEDERAL OFFICERS! WEAPON ON THE FLOOR! HANDS IN THE AIR NOW!" shouted a booming voice that rattled the light fixtures above the kitchen island.
Michael didn't move. He couldn't. His body was locked in a state of complete physical paralysis. His arms hung limply at his sides, his eyes staring blankly at the entryway as six heavily armed federal tactical officers poured into the kitchen, their assault rifles raised, their tactical laser sights casting bright red dots across Michael’s chest, shoulders, and forehead.
"STEP AWAY FROM THE OFFICER! ON YOUR KNEES! DO IT NOW!" the lead tactical commander ordered, his voice laced with the cold, unyielding authority of an elite military unit.
Tyler dropped his smartphone to the floorboards. The screen shattered against the tile as he raised both hands high into the air, falling backward against the kitchen counter, his face pale and dripping with cold sweat. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I didn't do anything! It was him! It was my dad!"
Emma crouched near the refrigerator, weeping quietly, covering her head as the tactical team moved with fluid, lethal efficiency through her home.
Two tactical officers moved straight toward Michael. Without waiting for a response, the lead officer grabbed Michael by the back of his navy uniform collar, kicked his feet out from under him, and slammed the local police chief face-down onto the hard kitchen tile.
Michael’s breath exploded from his lungs in a heavy gasp as his face was pressed flat against the spilled black coffee and broken ceramic shards. The gold chief’s badge pinned to his chest dug painfully into his ribs as heavy steel handcuffs—far larger and thicker than his own—were violently ratcheted around his wrists behind his back.
"Target secured! Primary target on the floor!" an officer called out.
Simultaneously, a military medic wearing tactical fatigue gear rushed forward, kneeling beside General Mitchell. In his hand, he held a heavy-duty hydraulic bolt cutter.
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"General, stay still, ma'am," the medic said with urgent respect.
With one precise, powerful squeeze of the tool, the steel chain of the local police handcuff binding General Mitchell to the oak chair was severed with a sharp, metallic SNAP.
