Take that fake medal off before somebody realizes what you really are!”

The press gallery erupted into pandemonium.

Flashbulbs detonated like a storm of white phosphorus. Shouted questions echoed off the high marble ceiling, every reporter in the state realizing that this was not the exposure of a fraudulent captain, but the catastrophic exposure of a multi-decade political cover-up.

"Senator Vance! Did your son abandon his company under fire?"

"Was the Broadmoor incident premeditated retaliation?"

"Did you abuse your committee authority to seize the Fort Carson easement?"

Vance stood paralyzed, his hands shaking as his corporate lawyers frantically whispered in his ears, trying to cover the microphones. General Sterling was already slinking away toward the rear exit, his eyes fixed on the floor, trying to escape the glare of the cameras he had summoned only hours before.

Michael Harris took one deliberate step forward, approaching the dais.

Even in civilian life, Michael’s reputation among the active-duty command structure was legendary. When he spoke, the roar of the press room instantly died away.

"Senator," Michael said, his voice quiet, heavy, and resonant with absolute finality. "Thirty minutes ago, the United States Army Criminal Investigation Division served a warrant at your son’s estate in Cherry Creek. The altered after-action reports he forged to cover his dereliction of duty have been seized from his personal server."

Vance’s knees literally buckled. He sank back into his high leather chair, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish dragged onto dry dock.

"Furthermore," Michael continued, reaching into his inner breast pocket and drawing out a document bearing the seal of the United States District Court of Colorado, "Harris Industrial and the Veterans’ Allied Trust have filed an emergency racketeering and civil conspiracy complaint against you, your brother, and every private entity involved in the slanderous attacks against Captain Bradley."

Michael laid the legal summons down on the edge of the legislative bench with a sharp, echoing *crack*.

"You wanted to audit our valor, Senator," Michael said, turning his back on the broken politician. "Now the Department of Justice will audit your soul."

I walked side by side with Michael toward the double doors of the chamber. As we crossed the threshold, the two hundred veteran bikers outside broke into a deafening cheer that shook the stained-glass windows of the Capitol rotunda.

David Miller walked beside us, his face glowing with triumphant, vindicated tears.

"Captain," David whispered, saluting with trembling precision. "The line held."