*TACK.*
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
The sound of my hand-welted leather field boots stepping off the deployment vehicle onto the asphalt was slow, unhurried, rhythmic, and concussive.
Every step fell with the mechanical, heavy cadence of a naval battery firing across an enclosed harbor.
I walked through the drifting granite dust, holding that four-inch titanium keyway firmly in my hand, while Admiral Mercer walked beside me, my dark hazel eyes boring through the gale toward the mouth of the open cellar bulkhead.
Beside me walked Ethan with his weapon at low-ready, his dark hazel eyes boring through the gale toward the mouth of the open cellar bulkhead.
Beside me walked Barnaby, his golden coat bristling, his amber eyes locked onto Julian Vance’s jugular with silent, predatory discipline.
Behind us, two federal marshals dragged Arthur Sterling-Vance down the gantry ramp in his Leavenworth transport chains, his eight-thousand-dollar cashmere greatcoat caked in slurry, his knees scraping across the wet concrete:
