*SNAP.*
A second set of chains clamped around his ankles—the identical stainless-steel irons used for capital traitors at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth.
Beside him, the other five mercenaries were dragged from the vehicle by federal marshals, their weapons confiscated, their tactical tablets impounded, their designer boots dragging through the slush as they were forced to their knees in the freezing rain:
*CRASH-ROAR-PANT.*
I walked to where Marcus lay pinned.
I did not strike his cheek.
I did not spit on his head.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the battered die-cast red toy truck that Leo had carried into the hospital:
I set the heavy miniature truck flat atop the back of Marcus Sterling’s bleeding neck:
*TINK.*
“You told Claire three hours ago, Marcus, that her bloodline would sleep in a potter’s grave,” Ethan Vance whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable decree that sealed forty years of dynastic treason into solid rock forever:
“You told her she was a nobody from an archival vault.”
I leaned down until my clear slate-gray eyes filled his entire field of vision:
“You were wrong, Marcus.”
“She is the mother of the heir.”
“I am the Master Surveyor.”
