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THEO STRITCH

McLean, Virginia

T heo Stritch sat back in his oversized desk chair with a hint of a smile.

To his right, the sun was disappearing behind the poolhouse at the back of the property.

Across the room, a bust of Julius Caesar sat on a plinth between two mahogany bookcases filled with leather volumes and framed humanitarian awards.

Stritch felt like an old-world general placing miniature troops and tanks on a battlefield map.

The video of his exchange with Zao was gone, and so were the two men who had seen it.

Stella Keen and Leo Jameson would soon be neutralized.

In a matter of weeks, both of them would be dead, and all evidence of stealing the drone research would lead directly to Stella.

Soon enough, Theo Stritch would be the most influential member of Hyperion, and all those hypocritical, pseudo-honorable relics would answer to him. The taste of power was honey on his tongue.

Stritch left his elegant private office, entered the adjoining bedroom, and peeled the dry cleaner’s plastic from his tuxedo.

Only one man could be problematic—the man who had begged him to rescue Stella from prison all those years ago—and Stritch was confident he could assuage him. If not, there was a solution for that, too.