The rain started at dusk, a freezing, sideways deluge that turned the streets of the Upper East Side into slick, black mirrors.
Inside Zara's penthouse, the ambient lighting was dimmed. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows offered a blurred, distorted view of the glittering Manhattan grid.
Ryan stood in the center of the master bedroom. The heavy silence of the apartment contrasted violently with the brutal, methodical preparation taking place.
Hayes stood three feet away, holding a matte-black, custom-fitted Kevlar vest. The mercenary's face was a mask of cold, uncompromising tactical focus.
"The Sovereign Club is a black box, sir," Hayes reported, his Midwestern drawl tight with professional frustration. "The exterior is century-old limestone. We mapped the blueprints. The walls are lined with architectural EMP shielding. Once you step through those heavy oak doors, all cellular and radio communication will be severed. You will be entirely off the grid."
