Standing beside the drilling controls, holding an industrial radio detonator wired directly to the high-pressure cryogenic liquid-nitrogen cooling lines of Conduit Ten…
Was Arthur’s younger brother, **Julian Vance**!
Julian leveled his finger straight toward the open concrete aperture on the screen, his cultured baritone booming over the drilling motors through the tactical audio intercept:
**“SEVER THE SECONDARY CRYOGENIC NITROGEN FLANGE! WE HAVE TWENTY-SIX MINUTES BEFORE THE MIDNIGHT CHANCERY DEADLINE! ONCE THE SHAFT COLLAPSES, OLIVIA MERCER WON’T HAVE A LIVING HOMESTEAD LEFT TO INHERIT!”**
The words crackled through the encrypted tactical receiver with the concussive, hydrostatic shock of an eighty-pound iron depth charge rupturing an armored bulkhead.
*Sever the secondary cryogenic nitrogen flange.*
The digital countdown above the master satellite console flashed in bright, unblinking crimson: `23:34:14 EST`.
Twenty-five minutes and forty-six seconds until the statutory eighty-year spendthrift restriction on Parcel Ten expired at midnight Eastern Standard Time.
Inside the quiet chapel of the Lakeview Hotel, the transformation was instantaneous.
