I walked through the drifting concrete dust, holding that four-inch titanium keyway firmly in my hand, while Admiral Mercer walked beside me, my dark hazel eyes boring through the gale toward the mouth of the open cellar bulkhead.
Beside me walked Barnaby, his golden coat bristling, his amber eyes locked onto Arthur Sterling-Vance’s jugular with silent, predatory discipline.
Behind us, two federal marshals dragged Melissa Vance down the gantry ramp in her Leavenworth transport chains, her cashmere cardigan caked in slurry, her knees scraping across the wet concrete:
rattle-clink-drag.
Beside her stumbled Julian Vance, his bespoke suit torn and soaked in industrial oil:
SCREEECH.
Arthur Sterling-Vance did not run.
He stood beside the drilled core hole in my grandfather’s foundation, his hands trembling as he closed his satellite terminal, his face draining of every drop of blood until his skin matched the gray slurry beneath his shoes:
“David…?” Arthur whispered, his cultured, appellate baritone cracking into an ugly, dry rattle:
