The echoing groan of the torn iron doors reverberated through the cavernous expanse of Warehouse 7, punctuated by the violent, spitting hiss of the armored SUV’s radiator. White smoke billowed outward in thick, shifting clouds, illuminated from behind by the savage, predatory glare of the high-beam halogens. Through the haze, Alexander Vance advanced like a localized tempest. He didn't look like the flawless, calculating tech tycoon who graced the covers of global business journals. He looked undone. His soaked white shirt clung to the rigid, imposing lines of his chest, and his hands, normally steady enough to sign away billions without a tremor, were curled into brutal fists.
His gray eyes, typically as cold and unreadable as winter ice, swept across the dark warehouse. The moment they
