Alexander Kane

The FBI convoy vanished into Jersey’s industrial haze, its armored transport carrying Victor Lang to what was supposed to be an impenetrable black-site. The pier’s wreckage smoldered behind us: twisted metal, charred crates, the acrid stink of C4 clinging to our clothes. Elena stood beside me, her hand still gripping her Glock, her eyes locked on the retreating taillights. Marco hunched over his laptop in the van, his drones grounded, his face pale under the scab on his ...