In a large, dimly lit office on the top floor of a run down but heavily guarded building in the industrial district, the mood was anything but calm. This was the headquarters of the Black Ring, and right now, the air felt thick with anger and tension.
At the head of the long table sat Marcus Hale, the man who ran the organization. He was in his late forties, broad-shouldered, with a face that looked like it had been carved from stone. His eyes were cold and sharp, and when he spoke, everyone listened. Right now, he was not speaking. He was staring hard at the three men standing before him, the ones who had been chasing Elara the night before.
“So let me get this straight,” Marcus said slowly, his voice low and dangerous. “You had one woman, alone, with no car and no phone. You chased her
