The reinforced glass didn’t shatter; it screamed.
A high-pitched, metallic tear vibrated through the mahogany floorboards, traveling straight up Jane’s legs. She didn't flinch. She just watched the spiderweb fractures race across the massive skylight above the dining table.
Three black ropes dropped through the fractured glass.
The men attached to them didn't wear pack colors. They wore unmarked, matte-black tactical gear. Council Elite. They smelled like ozone, wet ash, and the bitter, metallic tang of chemical adrenaline. This wasn't Ryan’s sloppy frat-boy guard. This was an extermination squad.
Michael didn't shift. He didn't even drop his casual posture. He reached toward the desk and picked up a heavy brass letter opener.
"Stay by the chair," he whispered.
It wasn't a command. I
