Chapter 8 - The Exposure
“Security!” Marcus Mercer bellowed, striding forward to block the front of the stage. “Remove this woman immediately! She is mentally unstable and trespassing on state property!”
Two state troopers rushed forward toward me.
“Stand down!” Nathan’s voice rang out like thunder. He stepped onto the stage beside me, holding his federal credentials high in the air. “United States Army Criminal Investigation Division and the Office of the Inspector General. By federal authority under Title 10 of the United States Code, this press conference is now an active federal crime scene!”
The state troopers froze in their tracks.
The press went completely feral. Camera shutters fired in a machine-gun rhythm. Reporters were on their feet, shouting questions, signaling their broadcast booths to keep the live feed rolling.
“Turn off the cameras!” Eleanor shrieked from behind the podium, her mask finally shattering into hysterical pieces. “Cut the transmission! Marcus, do something!”
Marcus stepped toward me, his hands curling into fists, his eyes bulging with sheer fury.
“You pathetic little bitch,” he snarled under his breath, barely an inch from my face. “I will bury you in a hole you will never crawl out of.”
“Go ahead, Marcus,” I said, loud enough for the bank of open microphones to capture every syllable. “Hit me again. Hit me in front of two million live viewers just like you hit me last night at the St. James Hotel.”
I turned my face directly toward the primary television cameras, letting the midday sunlight illuminate the violent, jagged bruise across my cheekbone and eye.
A collective, horrified murmur rolled through the crowd of hundreds of citizens.
“Look at it!” I shouted, my voice ringing out with decades of silenced rage. “This is the Mercer family values! This is what happens when you tell General Marcus Mercer that his decorated son is a fraud!”
Austin was trembling so hard his knees were visibly knocking together behind the podium. “Claire, please... stop... please...”
“Why should I stop, Austin?” I pulled a thick stack of laminated operational reports from my jacket, throwing them onto the podium directly in front of him. “Tell the press about the communications convoy at Helmand! Tell them about the four soldiers who suffered shrapnel wounds because you deserted your vehicle to hide in an opium warehouse!”
“That’s a lie!” Austin cried out, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pathetic squeak.
“It’s on the Pentagon servers, Austin!” I yelled back. “The unedited servers! Nathan, release the feed!”
High above the plaza, the massive digital jumbotron—intended to display Austin’s campaign logo—flickered.
Suddenly, an audio recording blasted through the state-of-the-art public address system.
It was Austin’s unmistakable voice, hysterical, sobbing, recorded six years ago:
*“Claire, you have to fix it! Dad said you can rewrite the satellite logs! If the MP checks the convoy track, they’re going to arrest me! Claire, I’m begging you, I don't want to go to prison!”*
Then came Marcus Mercer’s booming recorded voice:
*“Rewrite the files, Claire. Sentinel Global has already bought the black-market tech back. Save your brother, or this family is finished.”*
The silence that fell over the plaza was absolute. Terrifying. Complete.
The reporters stopped shouting. The donors stood with their mouths hanging open. The state troopers lowered their heads, looking at Austin with pure, unadulterated disgust.
Austin Mercer sank down onto his knees on the stage, burying his face in his hands, weeping openly.
The golden boy was gone. The war hero was dead.
May you like
All that remained was a cowardly child exposed to the world.
***
