Victor Lang
The black-site’s interrogation room was a coffin of concrete and fluorescent glare, the kind of place where men like me broke others without breaking a sweat. But I was the one chained to the steel chair now, wrists raw from cuffs, my tux shredded, blood crusted on my lip from Elena’s final punch. The FBI agents, clean-cut, by-the-book drones, hovered outside the glass, their eyes on me like I was a zoo exhibit. Montoya was dead, her loyalists scattered or cuffed, the airstrip a smoldering ruin. The drive, my drive—was in Kane’s hands, its secrets supposedly dead, Marco’s hack a masterpiece that had turned my empire to digital dust. The bounty was frozen, the packet neutralized, the world turning against me with every trending hashtag: #LangDown, #VasquezJustice.
But they’d l
