On my desk, audio monitors relayed a secure uplink across twelve time zones. Sam's phone was in his suit pocket, transmitting crisp audio from the twelfth floor of the Johnson Trading tower in Orlando.
On a secondary channel, Sidorov stood by from Zurich, ready to transmit an emergency injunction to federal court.
"Gabriel arrived five minutes ago," Sidorov whispered through my earpiece. "Ran three red lights on Orange Avenue."
"Understood," I murmured back. "Stay ready, Yuri."
Through the main speaker, the steady, periodic tap of Sam's cane echoed off polished floors.
Then came a harsh, wheezing breath, followed by heavy footsteps cutting across the corridor.
"Well, well," Doyle's raspy voice scraped through the speaker. "Look what crawled out of the sewer. Father called an emergency council for executives, Sam. Not for blind charity."
I leaned back, picturing Doyle standing in the hallway.
