The heavy, featureless visor of the Enigma mask hissed as the vacuum seal broke. Dahmer Lukas pulled it away, tossing the million-dollar piece of tech onto a velvet armchair as if it were a piece of scrap metal. His beautiful face was exposed to the stale air of a hotel room—pale, sharp-featured, and drenched in a cold, analytical sweat.
He looked at the man on the bed.
With a hand that still felt the phantom vibration of the Alpha's heartbeat, Dahmer reached for his encrypted comms. "Kaelan. Room 58. Now. Bring the retrieval kit and the heavy-duty suppressants."
Minutes later, the door slid open. Kaelan stepped in, his eyes darting around the room with the professional alertness of a high-level operative. He stopped dead when he saw the scene: the King of Deviloy, the man who held the world's economy in his hands, stripped naked and handcuffed to a bed, his chest rising and falling in the deep, unnatural slumber of an Enigma-induced coma.
