Chapter 41 Aftermath Protocol

• Headlights cut through the smoke and dark, the low hum of engines breaking the dead silence that followed the last gunshot. Convoys of black SUVs and trucks rolled into the blood-soaked stretch of road. The doors swung open, and Horace stepped out, his heavy coat swaying as the cold night breeze carried the stench of cordite and death. His expression was hard as stone under his fedora hat.
• Behind him came the Syndicate’s cleaning agents—silent men in dark coveralls, armed with steel drums, hoses, and bags of lime. Without a word, they began their grim work: stripping the corpses, hauling them into waiting trucks, scrubbing the blood from the cracked asphalt. They moved with frightening efficiency, like shadows trained to erase history.
• Before dawn, nothing must remain.