The attack on the Cross-Continental Logistics hub was not a ripple.
It was a tidal wave.
And it had crashed directly into the pristine, marble-floored lobby of Silas Cross's corporate empire.
He stood in his office, a silent, furious storm in a thousand-dollar suit.
His back was to the room, his hands clasped behind him as he stared out at the city lights.
His city.
A city that was, for the first time in a very long time, no longer completely under his control.
His senior aide stood a respectful ten feet behind him, looking pale.
The head of his security, a man built like a concrete bunker, stood beside him, looking grim.
"Say it again," Silas said, his voice dangerously quiet.
It was the quiet that was terrifying.
Silas Cross didn't shout.
He didn't have to.
His quiet was the sound of a predator gathering itself to strike.
"Sir," the aide began, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly. "The preliminary report is… catastrophic."
