The air in the sub-basement of Deutsche Bank had reached a state of unnatural stillness. It was the silence of a tomb, or perhaps a vacuum. Above them, the muffled, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of thermite charges continued to vibrate through the reinforced concrete, a heartbeat of impending violence.
Seraphina stood at the mouth of the narrow service conduit hidden behind the recessed panel of Box 814. She didn't look like a woman fleeing for her life; she looked like a chemist watching a volatile reaction reach its tipping point. Her high-IQ tactical mind was already three moves ahead, calculating the oxygen burn rate and the exact millisecond the bank’s automated "Sovereign Protocol" would engage.
"Sera, the elevators are gone," Alessandro said, his voice a low, jagged rasp. He was braced
