The screaming of the city’s trapped elite was a high-pitched, discordant symphony that drowned out the dying notes of the orchestra. Below, in the grand ballroom, the sheer physical panic of five hundred billionaires, politicians, and socialites in silk and diamonds had created a human stampede. They slammed against the locked gilded exits, their manicured hands clawing uselessly at the reinforced steel security doors Sarah Vance had deployed to turn the opera house into a tomb.
But then, the air in the theater shuddered.
The heavy, pneumatic groan of the lobby doors releasing their locks was followed by a sound that Blackwood’s high society had spent a decade trying to banish to the slums—the synchronized, guttural, and earth-shaking roar of a hundred V-Twin engines. The lobby’s massive
