“If they blow that manifold, an automated Title Fifty quarantine locks the bedrock, and The Valkyrie Trust executes emergency salvage receivership at zero-hundred hours!”
My knuckles turned chalk-white against the plastic receiver:
“What is their tactical timeline, Uncle David?”
“The countdown clock shows forty-two minutes until midnight CST, Adrian!”
“O’Hare International is currently under a Category Three blizzard warning, but Lead Bird Nine-Seven-Two and DEVGRU Red Squadron are idling on the executive de-icing pad waiting for your wheels to touch down!”
“Bring your grandfather’s titanium transit keyway! We are riding straight to the Calumet riverbed!”
“The key is in my breast pocket, Admiral,” I answered:
“Clear the runway.”
I hung up the receiver with a sharp, definitive click: SNAP.
I turned back to the aisle.
Melissa Vance sat in seat 15B, clutching the vellum indictment to her chest, her eyes wide with frantic, cornered dread as she looked from her sleeping daughter to me:
