The flames inside the cast-iron stove died down. That left the charred fragments of Baron Rask’s contract as nothing more than delicate gray ash curling in the heat.
The air inside Command Dugout Three was thick as stale swamp water. The two mercenary shock troopers flanking the doorway kept the muzzles of their automatic carbines leveled directly at Arthur’s chest, their gloved fingers resting on the hair-triggers. Meanwhile, Captain Varley’s wired bronze fist clicked in violent, uneven spasms against his thigh.
Arthur Vance didn’t glance at the guns. His heart rate remained at a steady, rhythmic fifty-eight beats per minute. The cold, rock-steady resting pulse of an experienced surgeon entering a running theater.
He reached into his main canvas satchel, withdrew a heavy, iron-bound ledger bound in dark green pigskin, and laid it flat on the map table between himself and Baron Rask.
The iron corners of the heavy volume struck the zinc-coated zinc table with a dull, ringing clang that rattled the stitch jars.
The heavy volume settled onto the zinc and iron surface with the percussive weight of a headsman’s block.
“You asked me for my terms, Baron,” Arthur said, his voice quiet, calm, and utterly devoid of fear. “Here is my audit.”
