The elevator's dark wood and gold fixtures seemed to absorb the light around us, creating an atmosphere of hushed, opulent secrecy. Through my glasses, ARIA was tracking movement throughout the club, her digital voice a soft, urgent whisper in my ear. "Webb just entered through the VIP entrance, Master.
He's heading for meeting room 4B. Someone's already waiting for him there – someone who's probably not there to discuss the weather."
The doors slid open onto a hallway that screamed old money paranoia – thick walls, no windows, doors that could probably stop a bullet. The air was heavy with the scent of leather and cigar smoke, a noxious perfume that clung to everything it touched. Veronica led me to a conference room where three people sat behind a mahogany table that belonged in a museum.
The membership committee.
