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Ryan Vance’s skeleton seemed to liquefy.
He collapsed flat onto the chancel floorboards, his bespoke morning coat tearing along the shoulder seam as he clawed at his chest, weeping hysterical, ragged tears of pure, un-calibrated ruin:
*rattle-clank.*
“Annie… please! Look at me! I am Amelia’s father! I made a mistake! Arthur Vance promised me seventy million dollars! Chloe told me you would never find out about the Swiss accounts! Don’t let them take me to a military prison in chains!”
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Beside him, Chloe shrieked from the marble, her hands flying to her torn veil, her makeup running in dark, jagged tracks down her face:
“ANNIE! TELL THEM! I AM YOUR SISTER! YOU PROMISED YOU WOULD ALWAYS PROTECT ME! YOU CANNOT PUT A BRIDE IN MILITARY CHAINS ON HER WEDDING DAY!”
I walked down the center aisle.
My hand-welted leather field boots struck the crimson runner with that unhurried, rhythmic, concussive *TACK*:
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
I climbed the three limestone steps of the chancel, stopping twelve inches from where my husband and sister lay groveling in their dropped flowers.
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Beside me, Barnaby stood at rigid, silent attention, his amber eyes locked onto Ryan’s jugular with predatory discipline.
Amelia stepped to my side, her small hand locking securely into mine.
I reached into the pocket of my denim jacket.
I did not pull out a divorce decree.
I pulled out that single, four-inch antique solid-titanium surveyor’s compass transit key, stepped with fifty-six analog cryptographic notches along its lower edge:
`KEY IDENTIFIER: MERCER-ANNIE-AMELIA-010`
`CLASSIFICATION: STRATEGIC SOVEREIGN ESCROW // TITLE 50 CONTINUITY`
`TITLE: CONDUIT TEN // THE CAPITAL COMMAND SPUR`
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