The opulent living room of the Wallenbern Estate was a charnel house. The scent of spilled blood, thick and coppery, mingled with the faint, sharp smell of ozone. Ornate furniture was overturned, and the bodies of maids and security guards lay twisted on priceless Persian rugs, their loyalty repaid with swift, brutal efficiency.
In the center of the carnage, Robert Wallenbern was on his knees. One eye was swollen shut, his lip was split, and a dark bruise was already purpling along his jaw. He was a king in the ruins of his castle, breathing in ragged, painful gasps.
Standing over him, immaculate in black tactical gear, was McKnight, flanked by two towering Echo Soldiers. They were perfectly still, their faces impassive masks of conditioned obedience.
