clack-clack-clack-clack.
The drill operator slammed his palm onto the emergency kill switch!
The deafening scream of the diamond core drill died instantly, leaving only the hiss of cooling liquid nitrogen and the low, subterranean rumble of our aircraft engines.
BARK.
An eighty-pound blur of golden fur and braided muscle exploded from the deployment ropes!
Barnaby did not hesitate!
The Belgian Malinois covered twenty yards of concrete in three kinetic bounds, vaulted over the secondary drilling mast, and planted his massive paws squarely upon Arthur Sterling-Vance’s chest, driving the eighty-year-old former Chief Justice flat onto his back across the asphalt with concussive, bone-jarring violence!
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SLAM.
The solid-gold serpent cane clattered across the stones, rolling into the slurry: CLATTER.
Barnaby stood over him, his dark, scarred muzzle inches from Arthur’s jugular, his amber eyes burning with predatory discipline, letting out a low, guttural, subterranean rumble that made the entire concrete apron hum:
