[Jake's POV]
The art storage facility in Brooklyn looked exactly like what it was supposed to be: a boring, windowless, heavily fortified concrete block designed to hold the tax-evading assets of the ultra-rich. It sat at the end of a dead-end street near the waterfront, surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
But as I sat in the back of the armored SUV, watching the facility through a pair of high-powered thermal binoculars, I could see the truth. The roof was lined with military-grade encrypted satellite dishes, disguised as standard HVAC units. The thermal bloom from the basement indicated a massive, industrial-scale server farm running hot. And the heat signatures of the "security guards" patrolling the perimeter moved with the crisp, overlapping precision of Tier-One mercenaries.
This wasn't an art warehouse. This was Isabella Vane's central nervous system for her North American operations.
