I walked to where Arthur, Julian, and Vanessa lay groveling on the stones.
My hand-welted leather field boots struck the gravel with that unhurried, rhythmic, concussive *TACK*:
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
I stopped twelve inches from where Arthur Sterling-Vance lay weeping in his ruined greatcoat.
Beside me, Barnaby stood at rigid, silent attention, his amber eyes locked onto Arthur’s jugular with predatory discipline.
I reached out, holding that four-inch antique solid-titanium surveyor’s compass transit key, stepped with fifty-six analog cryptographic notches:
`KEY IDENTIFIER: MERCER-ARTHUR-010`
`CLASSIFICATION: STRATEGIC SOVEREIGN ESCROW // TITLE 50 CONTINUITY`
`TITLE: CONDUIT TEN // THE CAPITAL COMMAND SPUR`
*SLIP.*
I laid the heavy titanium key flat across the nape of Arthur Sterling-Vance’s neck:
*TINK.*
“Your granddaughter told Kendra through the hotel wall last night, Arthur,” Chancellor Olivia Eleanor Mercer whispered softly.
My voice had no trembling bride’s hesitation left.
It carried forty decibels of compressed, sub-zero polar diamond that made the falling drizzle itself seem to freeze in mid-air:
