Time stretched into brittle, razor-sharp filaments. Marcus Vance caught the subtle refraction of sunlight off the distant Spanish moss—a needle of silver blinking two hundred yards out in the cypress canopy across the lawn. His reflexes acted before his conscious mind registered the threat. He loosened his grip on the bone-china teacup, dropped his shoulder, and drove the heel of his combat boot into the carved edge of the granite garden table.
Chapter 1: The Bullet in the Porcelain The teacup was in freefall, hovering four inches above the linen runner, when the sound tore through the humid morning air. It was not a pop; it was the violent crack of a bullwhip breaking the sound barrier, followed by the wet smack of lead tearing through porcelain….
