Arthur Vance bared his teeth in an ugly, triumphant snarl:
“Every commercial share of Hale Dynamics, your thirty-one-billion-dollar market cap, your Pacific Heights mansion, and seventy billion dollars in carried European defense reserves reverts in absolute fee simple unto The Valkyrie Trust if the lineal heiress is deceased or physically dispossessed before midnight tonight!”
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Arthur pointed his cane down into the smoking borehole:
“Natalie is hiding in that lodge! When my diamond drills sever the cryogenic cooling flange, four hundred pounds of liquid nitrogen will flash-boil inside the ventilation shafts, triggering an automated Title Fifty subterranean implosion that will drop this entire five-hundred-acre promontory eighty feet into the fjord!”
“And tomorrow morning, Marcus… The Valkyrie Trust assumes sovereign salvage title over the entire Pacific defense corridor!”
TACK.
TACK.
TACK.
The sound of hand-welted leather field boots stepping off the gravel path onto the asphalt apron was slow, unhurried, rhythmic, and concussive.
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