*SCREEECH.*
Behind them were marched the four European factoring litigators who had been seated in the front pews, their designer Italian loafers dragging through the slurry on the floor, leaving long, jagged, gray streaks across the carpet as they were hauled toward the transport vans:
*CRASH-ROAR-PANT.*
The heavy double brass doors of the chapel were closed behind them with an authoritative, airtight, pneumatic **THUD**.
The sanctuary returned to absolute, ringing silence.
I did not pause to look at the shattered wine glass.
I did not pause to look at the bridesmaids who had laughed through a hotel wall while plotting to steal seventy billion dollars of national defense bedrock.
Supported by Ethan’s strong, unyielding arm, my hand-welted leather field boots stepping firmly onto the gantry stairs, I felt eighty years of inherited sovereign steel bite into my palm:
`KEY IDENTIFIER: MERCER-ARTHUR-010`
`CLASSIFICATION: STRATEGIC SOVEREIGN ESCROW // TITLE 50 CONTINUITY`
`TITLE: CONDUIT TEN // THE CAPITAL COMMAND SPUR`
