At the Citadel, the garage area of the main entrance looked less like a vehicle bay and more like a supply artery.
Industrial lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale wash over the shifting tide of minions below. Some moved in single file, carrying metallic crates with labels stenciled in red or black.
Others moved in formation, hefting full-sized shipping containers between them—one at each end, two in the middle for balance.
Above it all, on the balcony that overlooked the activity, stood Gary.
He lowered the phone from his ear and slipped it into the inner pocket of his blazer, the movement smooth, practiced.
His other hand remained occupied with a black tablet, its screen quietly updating as crates were logged and accounted for in real time. Numbers flicked upward. Icons blinked green.
