My hand-welted leather field boots struck the gravel with that unhurried, rhythmic, concussive TACK:
TACK.
TACK.
TACK.
I stopped twelve inches from where Arthur Sterling-Vance lay weeping in his ruined greatcoat.
Beside me, Barnaby stood at rigid, silent attention, his amber eyes locked onto Arthur’s jugular with predatory discipline.
I reached out, holding that four-inch antique solid-titanium surveyor's compass transit key, stepped with fifty-six analog cryptographic notches:
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KEY IDENTIFIER: MERCER-ARTHUR-010
CLASSIFICATION: STRATEGIC SOVEREIGN ESCROW // TITLE 50 CONTINUITY
TITLE: CONDUIT TEN // THE CAPITAL COMMAND SPUR
