Standing beside the drilling controls beneath a portable aluminum awning, holding an open satellite terminal in his hand…
Was eighty-year-old Former Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance.
Wrapped in an eight-thousand-dollar vicuña greatcoat, leaning on a solid-gold-headed walking cane carved in the likeness of a coiled serpent, Arthur Vance checked his platinum Patek Philippe chronometer as the digital countdown ticked down!
Beside him stood Vivian Cross, wearing a ruined white mink coat, her designer boots caked in gray rock slurry, her eyes blazing with frantic, predatory mania:
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“SEVER THE SECONDARY CRYOGENIC NITROGEN FLANGE!” Vivian shrieked over the deafening noise of the drill motors:
“We have twenty minutes before the Zurich registry locks at midnight! Once the shaft collapses, Natalie won't have a physical redoubt left to claim!”
And standing ten feet back, his tuxedo jacket torn, his hair plastered to his forehead by the freezing rain, his face hollowed out in sheer, paralyzed horror…
