Alexander Kane
The black-site’s cell block was a concrete crypt, its air stale with the stench of sweat, blood, and betrayal. Victor Lang sat chained to a steel chair in the interrogation room, his jumpsuit torn, his face a mosaic of bruises and burns from the rooftop blast. His eyes, though, those cold, calculating eyes, still gleamed with the arrogance of a man who believed he held the board. The screens behind him flickered with Marco’s rerouted broadcast: LANG ENTERPRISES: MURDER, ARSON, EXTORTION. Times Square blazed with his crimes, CNN looping Javier’s journal, my parents’ crash, Sofia’s poisoning. The world saw Victor for the monster he was. Montoya’s loyalists were cuffed, Reyes was singing, and the FBI; real agents, not moles, were tearing Lang’s empire apart.
But Victor’s fina
