The executive floor was a tomb of silence, the only sound the faint, electric hum of the air purification system. Luca Vane sat at the small, secondary desk Malcolm had assigned him, his head bowed over a stack of high-security personnel files. To any observer, he was the picture of a diligent, exhausted intern. Beneath the messy fringe of his dark hair, however, his silver eyes were focused with a terrifying, predator-like clarity.
He heard the elevator chime from three hallways away. He heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of Malcolm Ford's boots—a stride that was usually confident but today carried a jagged, uneven weight.
Outside the heavy doors, Malcolm stopped.
He leaned against the cold marble wall, he reached into his pocket. He pulled out one of Dr. Armstrong's amber vials. The clear liquid shimmered under the recessed lighting. With a jaw-clenched desperation, Malcolm downed the suppressant, the chemical coldness sliding down his throat like liquid lead.
