Standing above her was Julian. At thirty, he was the picture of East Coast aristocratic arrogance. His bespoke white dress shirt was partially unbuttoned, the silk clinging to his athletic frame, completely unbothered by the violence he had just committed. In his right hand, he casually swirled a heavy crystal glass of fifty-year-old single malt whiskey. His black trousers were immaculate. He looked down at Clara not with rage, but with the cold, calculated detachment of a predator observing a wounded bird. He took a slow sip of the amber liquid, the ice clinking loudly in the suffocating silence of the cellar.
"You really thought you could walk out of here with those flash drives, Clara?" Julian’s voice was a low, terrifying drawl, echoing off the stone walls. "Did you honestly believe the SEC or the FBI would even pick up the phone if you called? I own the network. I own the politicians. I own the ground you are bleeding on."