Alexander Kane

The black-site’s cell block was a concrete crypt, its air stale with the stench of sweat, blood, and betrayal. Victor Lang sat chained to a steel chair in the interrogation room, his jumpsuit torn, his face a mosaic of bruises and burns from the rooftop blast. His eyes, though, those cold, calculating eyes, still gleamed with the arrogance of a man who believed he held the board. The screens behind him flickered with Marco’s rerouted broadcast: LANG ENTERPRISES: MURDER, ...