The atmosphere inside the safe house was a jarring contrast of domestic comfort and imminent violence.
The sprawling living room featured vaulted ceilings and imported hardwood floors, but the blackout curtains were drawn tight against the windows, sealing them in completely. The air smelled of expensive pine furniture, sterile cleaning supplies, and dried blood.
Lounging amidst the sleek, modern living room furniture were four men whose combined net worth could easily purchase a few small sovereign nations.
Damien Sinclair sat on a minimalist dining chair that had been dragged into the center of the room. His suit jacket was gone, his tie discarded, and he was leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His face was buried in his hands, radiating the kind of profound defeat that usually preceded a corporate collapse.
