The drive to the Coloane hills the following evening was solitary.
The Aston Martin was silver. Sleek. It hugged the road. The engine was quiet, almost silent. No armored glass. No contractors in the mirror. Just me.
I drove myself, leaving the armored Mercedes and the private contractors at the Wynn. The city lights fell away behind me. The air coming through the vents smelled like leather and faint cologne. My hands on the wheel were loose. No tension. Julian Croft didn't grip the wheel like he was expecting an ambush.
I wore a bespoke black tuxedo, the fabric cutting a sharp, elegant silhouette. The jacket sat clean on my shoulders. The shirt was cool against my skin. I didn't carry a weapon. I didn't even wear the Vanguard tactical watch. My wrist was bare. I was completely unarmed and digitally isolated. No comms bead. No backup.
