The private terminal at JFK Airport was a study in sterile, uncompromising luxury. It smelled of aviation fuel, polished granite, and the specific, rarefied air of people who never waited in line.
Ryan stood near the tinted glass of the departure lounge, watching the sleek, midnight-blue silhouette of a Bombardier Global 7500 being prepped on the tarmac. It wasn't a charter. It was an acquisition.
He had purchased the aircraft in cash thirty-six hours after the Warlord Protocol's multibillion-dollar yield, bypassing the agonizing waitlist by buying it directly from a panicked tech billionaire currently facing federal indictment.
He took a slow sip of black coffee. The dark, heavy wool of his bespoke overcoat rested perfectly across his broad shoulders.
The immediate domestic threats were eradicated. The FTC injunction was dead. The local mafia was a memory. The Syndicate's primary siphon had been turned into a digital explosive that melted their European servers.
