Alexander Kane
The mansion’s war-room smelled of gun-oil and adrenaline.
Every screen on the glass wall blazed with live feeds: NYPD cruisers outside the warehouse, Frankie in cuffs, the sniper zip-tied to a gurney. Elena stood at the center, still in her blood-spattered jeans, hair wild, eyes harder than I’d ever seen. She hadn’t slept. Neither had I. The drive Marco pulled from Frankie’s pocket spun in the projector, looping Victor’s voice on a tinny speaker:
“Javier begged. Right before the poison hit.”
Sofia sat on the leather couch, wrapped in a shock blanket, IV bag dangling from a stand the medics had left. Marco hovered, hoodie sleeves pushed up, knuckles raw from the drone crash. The kid had flown a taser-armed quadcopter through a skylight and taken out a professional hitter.
