The underground VIP parking garage of Apex Trust Bank felt less like a sanctuary and more like a concrete slaughterhouse. The smell of copper from Managing Director Koomson’s fresh blood drifted from the ramp where his car sat, its windshield shattered by a professional sniper round.
Edward Vance stood like a towering statue of dark granite, his fingers squeezing the frame of his encrypted phone so hard the glass casing groaned. On the other end of the line, his head of security at Vance Headquarters was still speaking, his voice laced with panic over the heavy radio static.
Sir! The Inspector General has surrounded the main lobby. Beatrice is right there with him. She’s weeping for the cameras, showing fake medical reports that say you kept her drugged and locked in a basement for three
