Arthur Sterling-Vance didn't even turn his head.
With one sharp, dismissive flick of his arm, the eighty-year-old billionaire drove the brass ferrule of his cane into Marcus’s chest: THUMP.
Marcus stumbled backward, his knees hitting the wet gravel, coughing in the freezing spray:
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OOF.
“Shut your mouth, you pathetic, commercial clerk,” Arthur Vance sneered without looking down:
“You spent twelve years sleeping beside the granddaughter of Chief Master Surveyor Arthur Mercer Senior, and you didn't even know her real name! You thought you were an industrial titan because you wrote code and raised venture capital? You were an ignorant peasant who was allowed to lease forty miles of national defense bedrock to run your toy servers!”
Arthur Vance tapped his serpent cane against the drilling chassis: THUD.
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“Under Section Fourteen-B of the 1944 Mercer Sovereign Lineal Charter: eighty years ago, Arthur Mercer Senior decreed that if an adverse commercial partner or fraudulent spouse attempts to murder, defraud, abandon, or extinguish the living lineal bloodline of the master surveyor on an active sovereign defense homestead…”
