The morning sun broke over Jakarta like a blade of pale gold, cutting through the retreating storm clouds and illuminating the glass monolith of Vance Corporation. Below, the city roared to life—oblivious to the silent shift of power that had transpired in the shadows of the West Java mountains.
By eight in the morning, the executive boardroom on the fifty-second floor was locked down under maximum security.
Outside the heavy frosted-glass doors, Viktor Markov and his elite Syndicate operatives stood post in crisp black tactical attire, replacing the standard corporate guards. Inside, the floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobstructed view of the financial district.
I sat at the head of the long mahogany conference table—the seat traditionally reserved for the Chairman of the Board.
