Victor Lang
The penthouse was a fortress of glass and shadow, thirty floors above Manhattan’s restless pulse. From my perch at the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled like a circuit board: neon veins, traffic arteries, a billion lives flickering under my thumb. I swirled the scotch in its crystal tumbler, the ice clinking like a countdown. On the obsidian desk behind me, the drive, the real drive, sat under a spotlight, its matte black surface catching the glow of the monitors. Queens burned on one screen: La Isla Dorada reduced to a crater of smoldering rubble, flames licking the night sky like a victory toast. Kane and his spitfire had walked into my trap, danced on the tripwire, and somehow crawled out breathing. Impressive. Infuriating.
But the drive was mine.
Encrypted, of
