Alexander Kane

The mansion’s war-room smelled of gun-oil and adrenaline.

Every screen on the glass wall blazed with live feeds: NYPD cruisers outside the warehouse, Frankie in cuffs, the sniper zip-tied to a gurney. Elena stood at the center, still in her blood-spattered jeans, hair wild, eyes harder than I’d ever seen. She hadn’t slept. Neither had I. The drive Marco pulled from Frankie’s pocket spun in the projector, looping Victor’s voice on a tinny speaker:

“Javier begged. Right ...