Advertisement
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…
Advertisement
Was eighty-year-old **Former Chief Justice Arthur Sterling-Vance**.
And standing directly beside him, still wearing her blood-splattered ivory cashmere coat, holding a crystal glass of bourbon in one hand and an unsealed quitclaim deed in the other…
Was my wife, **Victoria Sterling-Vance**.
“FASTER!” Victoria shrieked over the deafening roar of the drill motors, her face twisted into an ugly, manic mask:
“SEVER THE SECONDARY NITROGEN COUPLING! WE HAVE SIXTEEN MINUTES BEFORE THE ZURICH REGISTRY LOCKS! ONCE THE SHAFT COLLAPSES, MARCUS WON’T HAVE A LEGAL APERTURE LEFT TO INHERIT!”
