The heavy oak doors of the Sovereign Club closed behind Ryan with a suffocating thud.
The sound severed the noise of the freezing rain and the Manhattan traffic completely.
The architectural EMP shielding Hayes had warned him about was immediate and absolute.
Ryan felt the faint, microscopic buzz of the electronics in his pocket die. He was entirely disconnected from his empire, sealed in a limestone vault that smelled of beeswax, aged leather, and centuries of inherited arrogance.
Two men in immaculate, unbranded dark suits flanked him.
They didn't speak.
One held out a silver tray.
Ryan didn't argue. He placed his dead primary phone on the tray.
A wand scanner swept over his tailored jacket, gliding silently over the matte-black Kevlar vest strapped to his ribs.
The guard paused, registering the ballistic armor, then met Ryan's gaze.
