The young Marine slammed his shoulder forward before I had time to turn. My boots skidded across the greasy tile, and my back hit the stainless-steel counter.

Colonel Bradley Briggs didn't drop his gavel. His fingers simply uncurled, and the polished wood rolled off the edge of his elevated bench, striking the carpet with a dull, hollow sound that seemed to linger in the air forever.

His knees hit the underside of his desk as he attempted to stand, his face draining of blood so fast that his lips turned the color of lard.

"Atten-shun!" Hayes’s voice didn't just rattle the glass; it shook the ceiling tiles, a bellow refined by thirty-two years of command authority that bypassed the brain and seized the spinal cord.

Every Marine in the room—Captain Harris, the bailiff, the two MPs at the doors, and even Lance Corporals Vance and Parker who were sitting in the back row—snapped to the position of attention as if struck by a high-voltage wire.

Tyler Mercer tried to stand, but his dislocated shoulder sent a wave of agony through his torso, and he collapsed back into his chair with a wet gasp, his eyes bulging as he looked at the two silver stars on my shoulders.

Conrad Mercer remained seated, but his smug expression curdled into a mask of pure confusion. "What is the meaning of this charade? Bradley, who is this woman?"

Briggs didn't answer him. He couldn't. His vocal cords had seized.

I walked Bruno to the center of the courtroom, directly between the defense and prosecution tables. Bruno sat down without being told, his blue cast extended proudly in front of him, his amber eyes fixed directly on Tyler Mercer’s throat.

I looked up at Briggs.

"You may take your seat, Colonel," I said. My voice was quiet, conversational, and possessed the terrible, crushing gravity of an incoming tide.

Briggs sank into his leather executive chair like an old man whose bones had turned to dust. "General... General Callahan. We... we were not informed that the Inspector General’s office had arrived on station."

"I know you weren't, Bradley," I said, stepping toward the bench. "Because if you had been informed, you would have had three more days to falsify the shipping logs for the thirty-two AN/PVS-31A night-vision units currently sitting in a customs impound lot in San Ysidro."

Conrad Mercer shot to his feet, his bespoke jacket flying open. "Now see here! I don't care how many stars you have on your coat, lady! You have no right to come into a preliminary command hearing and make baseless allegations against my company or my son!"

I turned my head slowly, looking Conrad Mercer up and down as if he were an uninspected recruit with mud on his boots.

"Sit down, Conrad," I said.

"I will not—"

"Sergeant Major Hayes," I said without raising my voice.

"Ma'am!"

"If Mr. Mercer opens his mouth again without being sworn in by a federal magistrate, have the Provost Marshal place him in flex-cuffs and remove him to the holding cells in Area 14 for interference with an active Title 10 investigation."

Hayes took one massive step toward Conrad Mercer, his scarred hand hovering six inches above the civilian’s shoulder.

Conrad Mercer looked at Hayes’s face, looked at the cold, unyielding iron in the Sergeant Major’s eyes, and slowly, shakily, lowered his three-thousand-dollar suit back into the leather chair.

"Now," I said, turning back to Tyler Mercer.

The young corporal was trembling so violently that the ribbons on his chest were vibrating. The arrogance that had made him look ten feet tall in the mess hall had evaporated, replaced by the sniveling, desperate terror of a boy who had finally run out of daddy’s money.

"Corporal Tyler Mercer," I said.

"Ma'am... General..." Mercer stammered, his chin quivering.

"Yesterday morning, inside Mess Hall 1307, you committed an assault upon a superior commissioned officer," I said, my voice ringing off the walnut paneling. "You committed an act of aggravated cruelty against a retired Military Working Dog of the United States Marine Corps. You suborned perjury from two junior enlisted Marines under your tactical supervision. And you attempted to intimidate a federal witness, Petty Officer First Class Denise Alvarez, by threatening her career and her family."

"I... I didn't know who you were!" Mercer cried, tears breaking through his lashes and streaming down his cheeks. "I swear to God, General! I thought you were just some civilian! I didn't know!"

"That," I whispered, stepping so close to his table that Bruno’s nose brushed the hem of Mercer’s trousers, "is the most damning thing you have said today."

The courtroom was dead, absolute zero.

"You thought I was an unprotected woman," I said, leaning forward until my face was twelve inches from his. "You thought Bruno was an old, helpless dog who couldn't fight back. You believed that because you had a uniform, a father with political connections, and two hundred pounds of muscle, you were entitled to brutalize anyone who couldn't destroy your career in return."

I straightened up and looked at Briggs.

"Colonel Briggs."

"Yes, General?" Briggs croaked, his hands trembling on his blotter.

"You are hereby relieved of command of the 5th Marine Regiment, effective immediately, for loss of trust and confidence," I announced.

Briggs closed his eyes. A single tear slipped down his silver-stubbled cheek.

"Commander Lin," I called out.

The side door opened, and Lieutenant Commander Lin stepped into the room, followed by four federal agents wearing dark blue windbreakers with yellow NCIS letters across the back.

"Take Corporal Mercer into federal custody," I said. "Charges include aggravated assault, witness tampering, theft of government property, and conspiracy to violate the Arms Export Control Act."

The NCIS agents moved with surgical efficiency. Tyler Mercer didn't resist as they pulled him from his chair, snapped steel cuffs over his wrists, and began reading him his rights in a flat, administrative monotone.

"Dad!" Mercer wailed, looking over his shoulder as they dragged him toward the side corridor. "Dad! Do something! Call the Senator! Dad!"

Conrad Mercer didn't look at his son. He sat frozen, staring at the floor, his mouth slightly open, his empire crumbling around his feet.

I looked over at Denise Alvarez.

The cook was sitting with her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, her chin held high. A single, quiet smile crossed her lips as our eyes met.

I gave her the slightest, sharpest nod of respect.

"Court is adjourned," I said.