Marco Vasquez

The penthouse was a war zone of shattered glass and victory, dawn’s golden light spilling through the broken windows like liquid hope. Victor Lang lay cuffed on the marble floor, his midnight-blue fatigues soaked with blood, his smirk finally cracked. FBI agents swarmed, radios crackling, their boots crunching over the debris of his empire. The titanium drive, my drive, the one I’d coded with a back door that turned into a trap, was in Elena’s hands, its chain severed by ...