I didn’t pause to look at Michael’s broken phone.
I didn’t pause to look at the blood on my cuffs.
I held that four-inch antique solid-titanium surveyor’s compass transit key securely in my right hand, feeling eighty years of inherited sovereign steel bite into my palm, and leaped into the command Black Hawk idling on the hospital rooftop helipad, our hand-welted leather field boots crushing the asphalt into powder with that unhurried, rhythmic, concussive *TACK*:
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
Behind us, Barnaby vaulted through the rear doors of our aircraft, his amber eyes reflecting the tactical status screens, his low, guttural growl vibrating in his chest as the twin turbines shrieked into full military power!
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*ROOOOAR.*
***
23:25 EST.
The rain had begun to fall—a fine, freezing drizzle that slickened the winding gravel service roads along the lower Potomac River bluffs on the Mercer Homestead in Great Falls, Virginia.
Tearing down the river corridor at eighty miles per hour, their red and blue high-intensity halogen flashers painting the wet oaks in sweeping arcs of emergency color, came our four armored military tactical vehicles flanked by the command Black Hawk roaring fifty feet above the canopy!
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Ahead of us, rising against the dark Virginia sky, blazed the lower river boundary of the **Mercer Sovereign Homestead**—the five-hundred-acre timber tract surveyed by my grandfather eighty years ago.
Tonight, however, the peaceful family estate was under private military siege.
The decorative timber security gates had been ripped clean off their stone pillars by heavy steel tow straps.
Parked across my grandfather’s lower clover meadows were three heavy commercial crane trucks and two industrial drilling rigs bearing the private corporate logo of **Apex Strategic Demolition**—an offshore contracting shell registered in Vaduz, Liechtenstein!
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Around the open entrance of the old limestone carriage cellar—the primary surface cover for Valve Station Ten—eight private paramilitary contractors in sterile charcoal tactical nylon stood guard, their suppressed carbines held at low-ready!
From the depths of the stone cellar, the deafening, bone-shattering scream of industrial diamond-tipped core drills chewed through four feet of reinforced concrete:
*SKRRRRR-ROAR-GRIND.*
Thick plumes of gray pulverized slurry and cooling water sprayed across the grass!
Standing beside the drilling controls, wrapped in an eight-thousand-dollar cashmere greatcoat, his silver hair whipped by the exhaust fans, holding an open satellite terminal in his hand…
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Was eighty-year-old **Former Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance**.
Beside him stood three Swiss factoring litigators, clutching leather briefcases, checking their watches as the midnight deadline ticked down!
“FLARE AND BREACH!” Admiral Mercer roared through the vehicle intercom.
Our lead armored BearCat did not touch the brakes.
It accelerated straight through the ruined timber gates at forty-five miles per hour!
*KABOOOOM.*
*CRASH-ROAR-SHATTER.*
The industrial security stanchions were obliterated inward, sheared off at their concrete footings, sending steel pipes and warning signs tumbling across the grass!
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The four tactical vehicles slid to an aggressive, synchronized halt in a semi-circle around the carriage cellar, their forty-thousand-lumen searchlights pinning Arthur Sterling-Vance and his contractors in blinding, incandescent daylight!
The side doors of the BearCats flew open: *SHHH-CLANK.*
Pouring out onto the wet grass in fluid, synchronized mechanical velocity…
Came twelve operators from **DEVGRU Red Squadron**!
Across their chests hung suppressed SIG Sauer MCX Rattlers, their weapon-mounted PEQ-15 infrared lasers cutting through the drilling slurry in twelve razor-sharp needles of incandescent crimson light!
“FEDERAL INQUEST! CORDON ESTABLISHED! DROP YOUR WEAPONS FLAT ON THE GRASS! KILL THE DRILLS!”
Eight crimson laser dots locked dead-center onto the contractors’ foreheads!
Two locked onto the drill operator’s hands!
Two locked onto Arthur Sterling-Vance’s chest!
The Apex contractors didn’t even attempt to raise their carbines.
Private mercenaries know when an operation is structurally terminal. They immediately released their weapon slings, dropped their rifles onto the wet sod, and sank flat onto their stomachs with their fingers laced behind their heads:
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