"Senator Sterling," Cyprian repeated, his voice hollow. "The White Knight of Neo-Veridia."
The Jaguar sliced through the rain, a silent silver bullet moving through the dark veins of the city. The cassette tape sat on the dashboard, a small rectangle of plastic that weighed more than the entire car.
"He's polling at sixty percent for the Governor's race," Oryn signed from the passenger seat, his movements sharp with tension. "He controls the police union. The port authority. The zoning commission."
"He controls the narrative," I corrected, staring at the rain-streaked window. "Sterling isn't just a politician. He's a brand. He sells safety to the suburbs while selling hits to the cartels."
I looked at the tape.
"Marcus Thorne tried to get out," I murmured. "That’s why he died. Sterlin
