POV: Silas SterlingThe Gulfstream G650 didn't feel like a luxury jet; it felt like a pressurized coffin hurtling over the Atlantic at Mach 0.92. Below us, the ocean was a vast, indifferent black, but behind us, New York was still smoldering in the wake of the blackout.I sat at the mahogany workstation, my tie long gone, my sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark bruises where Arthur’s mercenaries had pinned me against the server rack. In front of me, the Geneva Protocol was no longer a pulsing red threat. It was a waterfall of emerald data, streaming directly into the Moretti-Vane secure node in Sicily."Silas, you haven't blinked in twenty minutes," Willa said, her voice soft but firm. She was sitting across from me, wrapped in a grey cashmere throw, a cup of untouched tea cooling in her hands. She still had a smudge of soot on her cheekbone a warrior’s mark I hadn't let her wash off."I’m watching the liquidity," I muttered, my eyes tracking a series of jagged red spikes on the globa
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