ADRIAN'S POV
The private jet banked over the English Channel, its engines a low, triumphant hum against the darkness of the stratosphere. Inside, the cabin was no longer a tactical hub; it was a sanctuary. The air was thick with the scent of expensive champagne and the electric, copper tang of lingering adrenaline.
I sat in the oversized leather armchair, watching my world settle. Across from me, Nate was slumped in his seat, his black overcoat discarded, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He was staring at the digital tablet in his lap, watching the flickering red candles of the global markets as they began to plummet in the wake of the Heller-Vance collapse. He looked like a man who had just dismantled an engine and was surprised to find his hands covered in oil.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I asked, raising my glass toward him.
