When the club's antique clock struck nine, Shanestood on the sidewalk outside, the heavy August air pressing down on him like a wet blanket. New York summers were merciless — the stench of hot asphalt, gasoline, and sweat hung thick in the streets. His shirt clung to his back, damp and uncomfortable beneath his dark vest.
A black Cadillac Fleetwood rolled to a stop beside him, its engine purring softly. The window descended with a faint mechanical whir, revealing Carterson's oval face, half-lit by the pale yellow glow of the streetlamp.
"How'd it go?" Carterson's voice was low, rasping, cautious.
"More complicated than we thought," Shane replied, sliding into the passenger seat. The leather creaked under his weight. He loosened his tie, fingers deft and deliberate. "Back to the office."
The Cadillac glided into the night, headlights slicing through the humid haze. Shane leaned back, eyes tracking the flickering neon signs and movie marquees that blurred past — The Roxy, Paramount, Coca-Cola. Then, in the rearview mirror, he caught sight of a gray Chevrolet keeping a steady distance. A corner of his mouth curved. Morgan's men — he'd expected as much.
"Tell the lab," Shane said quietly, voice steady, "to halt all testing with Kodak. Use the DuPont samples from last week instead."
Carterson blinked. "DuPont's film base cuts color fidelity by fifteen percent—"
"I know." Shane cut him off. "But a loss in quality is nothing compared to a search warrant from the Department of Justice."
The Cadillac turned toward the Woolworth Building, its towering Gothic spire gleaming against the city skyline. As they drove, Shane's thoughts ran cold and sharp. His flawless "chain blueprint," the plan he'd spent months designing, seemed suddenly naive. To Morgan & Co., it was probably just a clever schoolboy's essay. The realization burned — but it also lit a fire deep within him.
Back in Pioneer Optics' top-floor office, Shane shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of his walnut chair. The ceiling fan spun lazily, stirring the thick night air without cooling it.
"Whitney saw through our proposal the moment I mentioned antitrust," Shane said, rolling his sleeves to his elbows. His forearms were lean but taut — a craftsman's hands, not a banker's.
"I'll give him credit," Carterson muttered, trimming the end of a Havana cigar with a silver cutter. "The equity structure Morgan offered — on paper — still leaves us twenty-nine percent breathing room."
Shane paced toward the window, the lights of Lower Manhattan reflecting in his eyes. "The problem's those three shell companies. Under Delaware law, a minority shareholder with twenty percent can request an asset freeze during litigation. If Morgan pulls that lever, we're finished." He tapped the glass with a knuckle. "Those shells are the weak link — or our way in."
"I'll start digging tomorrow," Carterson offered, exhaling smoke.
"No," Shane said sharply. "Tomorrow, contact Walker. Confirm when Dr. Krause and his team are expected to land in New York." His gaze slid to the map of Europe pinned to the wall — his eyes lingered on London. "Before I make my next move, I need to know exactly what Morgan's endgame is."
Dawn crept over the Manhattan skyline, painting the Woolworth gargoyles in gold. Shane was already at his desk, sleeves rolled up, coffee untouched. He grabbed the black telephone and dialed.
"Volker? It's Shane. I need confirmation on Dr. Krause and that shipment."
Static crackled before a familiar gruff voice answered, drowned beneath the noise of cranes and ship horns. "Schedule's unchanged. The Queen Mary leaves Southampton tomorrow, due in New York in seven days."
"But listen," Volker's tone dropped. "There's trouble at the docks. Maranzano's boys are muscling in on Piers 5 and 7. Ever since that bastard Joe Ryan sold the union, every ship's become mob territory."
Shane's jaw tightened. His eyes drifted to the map of the New York Harbor. "Any issues on our end?"
"Not yet. Security's up to eighty men. Two elite teams patrolling full-time."
"Good." Shane pressed the brass button on his desk. The door opened a moment later, and Liselotte Weiss, his newly hired German secretary, stepped inside — every strand of her blonde hair perfectly in place.
"Black coffee."
"Thank you, Liselotte."
When she left, Shane circled a point on the harbor map with his fingertip. "Adjust the unloading plan. Shift everything to the private dock at Pier B7 in Red Hook. Use the special customs passes and have the convoy collect the shipment directly."
Volker hesitated. "Operationally fine — but those optical instruments on the manifest… if Customs decides on a special inspection—"
"Let them," Shane said coolly, opening his drawer. Inside lay a folder marked with Dr. Reinhardt Krause's handwritten notes, dense with German equations. "To anyone else, those machines are just overpriced junk."
That same night, across the Atlantic in London, fog rolled through Gower Street, wrapping the brick façade of Pioneer Optics' British office in mist. Inside, Dr. Krause adjusted the Zeiss apparatus under a flickering gaslight.
"Shane wants the parameters changed," said Dr. Klaus, lowering his voice. "Every core value of the three-color ribbon process — nonstandard units only."
Krause nodded thoughtfully, pushing his glasses up his nose. "He's afraid Morgan will copy the process once they take the factory."
"Not just afraid — he's certain," Klaus replied, opening a coded ledger. "He wants the formulas encrypted. Even if Morgan gets the machines, without our people, they're worthless."
Krause smiled faintly. "Then we redefine dispersion using the Pioneer coefficient. Replace the standard refractive formula with a logarithmic variable. Even their best analysts won't crack it."
He scribbled an elegant equation into the lab log, then paused. "By the way, Shane inquired about your latest progress on the safe hair dye project."
Klaus blinked. "Hair dye? Now?"
Krause chuckled softly. "He says it's a 'personal curiosity.' The man's building an empire and still thinking about vanity."
Before Klaus could reply, a horn blared outside. Both men turned to the window. A black Daimler idled at the curb. The door opened, and Mikhail stepped out — broad-shouldered, expression unreadable. Jay and Olki followed in formation.
Mikhail glanced up toward the second-floor window and met Krause's eyes. He gave a polite nod — one that carried the quiet weight of warning.