Julian’s gaze shifted to me.
He looked at the four-inch solid-titanium surveyor’s transit key in my hand.
He looked at my mother’s pristine silk gown, un-stained and radiant in the halogen lights.
He looked at his brother Arthur, bruised, weeping, and chained in the mud.
Julian Vance’s skeleton seemed to liquefy.
The satellite terminal slipped from his paralyzed fingers, shattering across the stones:
*CRASH.*
“The quiet bride from the hotel…?” Julian wheezed, his breath whistling past his dry lips in spastic micro-tremors:
*k-k-k.*
“The woman survived…?! Vanessa… you told me she was an insecure girl who would cry in her room until the wedding was cancelled!”
Vanessa Reed wept into the asphalt, her screams muffled by the vehicle engines:
“JULIAN! SHE HAD THE KEY! SHE OVERHEARD EVERYTHING THROUGH THE WALL! WE ARE FINISHED!”
*CLACK.*
Two SOG tactical operators stepped forward in synchronized, terrifying mechanical precision across the wet concrete apron of Slip Ten.
