Victor Sinclair
“Everything went smoothly?” I asked into the phone, my voice calm and controlled even as a slow smile spread across my face.
“Yes, sir,” the man on the other end replied. “We have her. She’s sedated and secure. No complications.”
I leaned back in the worn leather chair of the old warehouse office, far outside the city limits where no one would think to look.
The faint smell of smoke and chemicals hung in the air, but it didn’t bother me. It felt like home. “Good. Keep her that way until I arrive. And remember ...not a single scratch on her unless I say so. She’s still useful.”
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the desk. A deep, satisfied chuckle escaped me as I reached for the cigar box. I pulled one out, lit it slowly, and took a long drag, letting the smoke
