The transition of power in the North City was not a slow tectonic shift; it was a lightning strike. From the moment Jason Veasey lunged to the moment the life left his eyes, less than five seconds had elapsed. The air in the basement of Top World remained thick with the smell of ozone, blood, and the lingering spice of the lamb skewers Allen Morgan had been eating moments before.
The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. Jason Veasey's men—nearly thirty hardened street soldiers—stood paralyzed. They looked at the bamboo skewer protruding from their leader's throat, then at the young man who had thrown it with the casual indifference of a person tossing away a cigarette butt. One by one, they dropped their weapons. Clattering steel echoed off the concrete as, in a synchronized wave
