Evan and I walked through the drifting limestone dust, holding that four-inch titanium keyway firmly between us, while Admiral Mercer walked at our side, our hazel eyes boring through the gale toward the mouth of the open cellar bulkhead.
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Beside us walked Barnaby, his golden coat bristling, his amber eyes locked onto Arthur Sterling-Vance’s jugular with silent, predatory discipline.
Behind us, two federal marshals dragged Blake Haron down the gantry ramp in his Leavenworth transport chains, his bare chest shivering in the freezing sleet, his knees scraping across the wet concrete:
rattle-clink-drag.
Arthur Sterling-Vance did not run.
He stood beside the drilled core hole in Arthur Mercer Senior's foundation, his hands trembling as he closed his satellite terminal, his face draining of every drop of blood until his skin matched the gray slurry beneath his shoes:
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“David...?” Arthur whispered, his cultured, appellate baritone cracking into an ugly, dry rattle:
