Michael was reviewing the Singapore firewall logs when the alarm fired.
It wasn't a loud sound. Nothing in his office was loud. The alert was a soft chime, a single note, the kind of thing most people would miss if they were focused on something else. But Michael had built this particular alarm eleven years ago, and he'd never heard it go off. Not once.
He stopped typing. His fingers hung over the keyboard for maybe half a second, then he swiveled his chair and pulled up the surveillance dashboard.
The screen showed a map of the United States with five markers clustered in the same grid square. Manhattan. Midtown. The Four Seasons Hotel. Each marker had a name attached, and Michael read them slowly, like he was checking to make sure his eyes weren't lying.
Helena Voss. Darius Cole. Paolo Romano. Tom Kellerman. Sarah Mitchell.
Five signatures. One building. One suite on the thirty-fifth floor that had been booked through a Delaware LLC with no apparent owner.
