The fluorescent lights of Duskhaven Hospital hummed overhead as Elizabeth and the bruised remains of her entourage were wheeled through the emergency corridor. One of the bodyguards, his right arm locked in a fresh plaster cast, fumbled his phone out with his good hand and dialed Steve Turner.
At that same hour, hundreds of miles away in Capital City, a private Japanese-style lounge sat nestled behind an unmarked wooden gate. Inside, the air was thick with the sweet bite of cigar smoke. Steve Turner reclined on a low cushion, a half-burned cigar pinched between his fingers, speaking across a lacquered table to a silver-haired man whose calm demeanor belied decades spent in back-alley negotiations.
"Mr. Chapman, the new nightclub I'm opening in Southbridge is going to need your people run
