In a square room that looked more like a top-floor office than a back room, King Omar gestured for the two to take their seats in front of a grand oak desk. The king of the underworld waited for them to settle, then unbuttoned his jacket and sat down himself. Behind him loomed a wall of dark surveillance monitors. In the soundproofed room, none of the roaring club noise could be heard—no hint of the red-light atmosphere. Even the smell had changed from harsh cigarette smoke to a smooth apple tobacco with a touch of vanilla.

On the desk, next to ordinary office supplies and several overflowing folders, lay Billy’s Rubik’s cube. Had Omar claimed it as his property? Did he know about the secrets hidden inside that unassuming toy?

Billy only wondered briefly before the silence brought his attention back to his churning stomach, which plagued him with a sickening, cramping ache. He pressed his hands against his lower abdomen for warmth, but it didn’t help much. His face twisted with pain. He felt like a misbehaving school kid called to the principal’s office.

"You okay, Billyboy?" Isaac asked.

"I’m fine," he replied, though his face gave him away.

What did they do to me?

King Omar licked his broad lips, giving Isaac a dreamy look and flashing a mock-friendly smile. "The Cheetah. The Cheetah comes running back, bringing me a truly indecent proposal."

The Cheetah? What’s that supposed to mean?

King Omar chuckled quietly to himself, then his face suddenly turned stone-cold serious. "You promised me a deal, Abiem. A lucrative one I couldn’t refuse. It has to do with that cube. And the classified data I searched for in that researcher’s apartment and didn’t find. I’m all ears."

Billy froze once again, his body turning to ice. Omar had been to X-3-19’s apartment too?

Isaac picked up the jumbled Rubik’s cube and handed it to his seatmate. Billy released his grip on his stomach, puzzled, and took the toy. Only then did he catch on to Isaac’s plan. While he worked on solving the Rubik’s cube, clicking the blocks back into order, he listened as Isaac recounted what they’d been through.

When the projector inside the Rubik’s cube flared to life, casting secret documents into the air, King Omar’s skeptical look instantly faded, his eyes shifting to a more intense, astonished gaze. He yanked the cube from Billy’s hands, set it on the desk, and studied the experimental data. With his large thumb, he packed the tobacco into a pipe mounted on a hand-carved wooden holder beside him. He slid the pipe’s mouthpiece between his lips, lighting it with the flame of a scratched, weathered army lighter. The glow of the embers flared, smoke swirling from his mouth and nose, making the hologram flicker in the air. After a while, he turned off the projection, leaned back in his leather chair, looked at Isaac, and smoked quietly, waiting for the offer.

"Ever wondered how you’d bring down a mega-corporation that controls everything in America, in Europe—almost the entire world?"

King Omar looked at Isaac, scoffing. The ruler of the underworld hated the Thandros Corporation, but he was also sure that there was no way to defeat such a powerful entity that even controlled the government. A power too big for even the self-crowned king.

"To bring down Thandros, there are two options," Isaac began. "One is like toppling a dictator: you use the military strength of free nations not under the oppressor’s influence to overthrow them by force. But for other nations to intervene in a country’s affairs, they need two things: a) a self-interest that justifies the war, and b) a pretext that lets them look like heroes, even if the truth is far from that."

"What are you getting at, Abiem?"

"The world’s military powers want the monopoly on R-Energy for themselves. In America alone, two giants fight for dominance: the tech conglomerate VitroX, and the behemoth, Thandros Corporation. Both hold massive sway over their government. Both seek expansion. Both are already drooling for global control of R-Energy."

"That would satisfy the 'greed' factor," Omar mused thoughtfully. "But what about the pretext? Why would other nations want a war against Thandros—and by extension, America?"

Isaac nodded; he seemed ready for the question. He shifted in his chair and leaned forward over the table, his forearms resting on the surface as he moved closer to the kingpin. Billy, meanwhile, folded his hands over his stomach again to dull the cramps as best he could, listening intently.

"You don’t overthrow a tyrant alone," Isaac said. "You need the support of the masses. You have a choice, Omar: either seek military help and risk triggering a war that’ll likely plunge the whole world into chaos, or bring down Thandros using their own weapons... through more or less peaceful means."

"Peaceful?" Omar scoffed. "Doesn’t sound like my style. And on top of that, it sounds impossible."

Billy studied the broad-shouldered boss of the club scene. Omar Branett must have a certain level of intelligence, Billy thought, like any leader. But he didn’t seem nearly as complex as Isaac, whom Billy had once dismissed as a loudmouth without an objective view of the world, let alone any introspection, someone with tunnel vision, fixated only on whatever lay right in front of him.

But the more Billy Jones got to know Isaac, the more his character unfolded, until here they sat, and Billy barely recognized the young man beside him. The Cheetah? Abiem? A guy who was now making plans to bring down a global corporation with another man?

Billy was out of his depth; that much was clear. He could follow along, but he had nothing to add. All that mattered to him was that whoever was responsible for his misery would pay, one way or another.

"Corporations have one major weakness: they depend on the people. If no one buys Thandros’s products anymore, the company stops making money, the greedy beast grows leaner and leaner, and its power starts to crumble. Now, about that pretext we need: we have to expose the true face of Thandros, reveal the horrors they’ve been hiding behind their walls. That way, no one will ever buy their products again, and the government will be forced to cut ties with them."

"You mean..."

"We have to break into Central Park," Isaac said firmly. And that’s when Billy understood Isaac’s real plan: he intended to outwit the king of the underworld, making his own goals sound like Omar’s. He was using King Omar to find his wife Tabitha.

That damn bastard’s got ice in his veins...

"Emilia Steinbach, the researcher, started the process," Isaac continued. "She smuggled those files on human experiments out of the facility and got them to us. But the data, along with her ID, only provides a vague glimpse of what’s going on behind Thandros’s pristine facade. We need more proof. We have to get to the heart of the storm, into the belly of the beast—into Central Park itself—to uncover what those secret documents hint at: experimental subjects who are undeniable proof that the Thandros Corporation is the mastermind of a conspiracy centered on those horrific human experiments you just read about."

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Omar Branett tapped his finger thoughtfully on the desk, each sound heavy and deliberate, like knuckles rapping on wood. "Taking down the Thandros Corporation would make my power in New York limitless," he whispered.

Isaac pursed his lips and nodded.

King Omar was right; both Isaac and Billy knew that. But it was a price they were both willing to pay. Isaac for love, but Billy? He would do it purely for survival. Yet he couldn’t shake a doubt about the righteousness of this scheme.

Suddenly, from a drawer beneath the desk, King Omar pulled out a heavy revolver and laid it demonstratively on the polished oak surface.

A chill of fear ran through Billy, scattering his doubts and worries like dust.

Isaac tried to appear unfazed by the weapon, running his tongue over his lips before he spoke. "The Thandros Corporation is the one obstacle limiting your power, King Omar. If Thandros loses its grip—or vanishes entirely—a huge hole will open up in the system, a new order will take shape, and you’ll finally rise to the top. More lies, more suffering, more dirty money. How does that sound?"

King Omar grinned, his smile a touch wicked.

"We’ll leave you the cube projector so you can release the data to the public… or use it for leverage," Isaac said. "Meanwhile, we’ll find more. We’ll uncover everything Thandros is hiding. But to get behind the Paradise Walls, we’ll need you to lend us some money so the Locksmith can make us fake IDs."

With that, Isaac whipped out the researcher’s ID card, like an ace up his sleeve. "Here’s the template. Emilia Steinbach was a researcher in the restricted Central Park," he said. "She’s the one who gave us the documents. If we get IDs like hers, we can get in and expose everything. Or blackmail them. Your call, King Omar. So, what do you say? Will you fund us so we can make you even richer and more powerful in the end?"

Suddenly, the phone on his desk rang. Omar broke his gaze from Isaac and took the call, listening intently for a moment.

"Who the… Oh, yes… The doctor’s already on his way," said Omar Branett. "Yes, he should arrive soon. So, he… Yes, he has the lung with him. And the cornea, too. I’m sure of it. I know our clients don’t like to wait. They won’t have to, I promise. Yes, I know exactly who’s waiting and how much they’re paying. Please be patient; he’ll be there shortly."

The line went dead; the caller—whoever they were—had hung up on Branett. "Asshole," Omar muttered, slamming his smartphone down onto the oak desk.

Billy kept his surprise hidden, but... Omar had shown unusual restraint for a kingpin. Who could the caller have been?

Isaac held his gaze steady against Omar Branett’s intimidating glare. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. He didn’t blink. Then Omar said, "Forget the Locksmith. Every resident behind the palisades must carry additional identification, including a chip implanted under the skin. So, unless you still have the researcher’s body stashed somewhere…"

"You knew about the experiments all along?" Isaac asked, startled.

"No," Omar replied. "I had no idea about that. But I know my enemy. I’ve tried to get men into Central Park many times. I’ve even worked with officials from other countries. So I know the Locksmith can’t help you."

"Then what should we do?" Billy asked, looking around the room.

Omar took his eyes off Billy and opened the drawer again. This time, he pulled out a black notebook, flipped to a page, tapped his finger on a spot that Billy couldn’t see, and then said, "You’ve learned a lot, but you only see the tip of the iceberg. You have no idea of the forces lurking below that could crush you. The man I know is a renegade. A former researcher for the TC. However, he lost his memory. We’ve tried repeatedly to get information out of him… If violence doesn’t work, maybe an appeal to his conscience will. Maybe that’ll trigger his memories. If he agrees to help you, he could verify the authenticity of the documents. That would be useful if we’re serious about bringing down Thandros."

Isaac nodded. It wasn’t exactly the outcome he’d hoped for. Billy could tell Isaac would rather have the money and track down the Locksmith. He could see it in his eyes.

"Alright," Isaac said, with no other options. "Then give us his address."

King Omar closed the notebook and hid it under his massive hand. Then he slowly shook his head. "You deceived me, Abiem. You know I once had a lot of respect for you, maybe even liked you. But you’re wrong about one thing: I do have principles. And one of them is that no one cheats me without paying for it. I think the Rubik’s cube is fair payment for the life I granted you and Tabitha when you came here. That makes us even. But for betraying me... I can’t let that go."

Suddenly, King Omar reached for the revolver, the same one he’d used to kill the GMO in Emilia Steinbach’s apartment, and aimed the long, heavy barrel at his chest.

He cocked the hammer, click!

"You almost had me convinced with your brilliant eloquence. But all you want is to save your own skin. You’ll pay for betraying and abandoning me. You’ll both pay with your lives," King Omar declared, his tone calm, as if he were stating an indisputable fact, a reality that meant nothing to him. "You, Abiem, for your betrayal, and him, for knowing too much."

Billy’s face became a mask of horror.

He wanted to stand up, to flee the back room, but fear held him paralyzed.

The next moment, the door burst open, and one of King Omar’s henchmen rushed in.

Billy stared, frozen, down the barrel of the revolver.

His heart pounded.

Would Omar pull the trigger?

Would the .44 Magnum soon tear a massive, gaping hole in his chest?

The thought alone made Billy’s ears ring. Behind him, King Omar’s soldier started rattling off in rapid-fire French, speaking so fast it was as if he’d barely held back the words. He stumbled over himself, talking nonstop until King Omar silenced him with a wave.

"Shut up!" the underworld king said. "Take a breath, think, then speak! Do I look like a mother to you, or why do I have to teach you manners?"

The soldier took a deep breath, then spoke more calmly: "Armored SWAT vans are stationed outside the club. And they’ve surrounded the entrance."

King Omar set the revolver down on his desk, spun halfway around in his leather chair, and turned on the wall of surveillance monitors with a remote. On cameras three, four, five, seven, eleven, thirteen, and fourteen, a special police unit was visible, scanning every face in the club. The masked officers weren’t letting anyone in or out.

"Goddamn bastards."

Suddenly, one of Omar’s thugs pulled out a small handgun and fired at a SWAT officer.

"Those damned sons of bitches!" Omar shouted. "Didn’t we have an agreement with the cops? No raids in our club!"

"Thandros," Billy whispered, his heart pounding. "The police are their private army. They…" he hesitated, "they’re here because of us. Because of the classified documents."

Omar growled furiously, probably not hearing what Billy had said. A second later, a burst from a submachine gun flashed across camera thirteen. Silent screams and panicked clubbers filled the screens. On another floor, the live rock band stopped playing, camera seventeen.

"Those fuckers are ruining my business!" Omar roared. "The war has started. And from the looks of it, we’re up against not only Thandros Corporation but also the city." The king of the underworld strode over to a lavish liquor cabinet, where, hidden behind an array of fine spirits, he opened another compartment to reveal a concealed assault rifle.

"Stay put, both of you," he ordered his two guests. King Omar swapped the revolver for the assault rifle, chambered a round, and instructed the guard at the door to stand watch. The boss of Marilyn’s Pearl appeared dead set on leading his men into battle against the city. His footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway, like an enraged elephant on the move. The corridor was still filled with the chaotic sounds of screams from panicked club-goers and the shouts of SWAT officers issuing tactical commands.

Then the bodyguard locked the door. Isaac swallowed, and Billy did the same, but the thick, heavy feeling lodged in his throat—born of the realization that they were cornered in this office—wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard he swallowed. Fear stuck there, lodged tight.

Camera twelve showed Sato Ishim locked in a firefight with the police. The small Asian man crouched behind the bar as bottles shattered above his head. Several officers focused their fire on him. Moving swiftly around the bar, Sato fired back at the masked corporate agents until a hail of bullets ripped through his chest, leaving him bleeding, gasping, and crumpled on the floor.

Despite the situation, Billy couldn’t feel any relief. Sure, the hitman would no longer be a problem, but the world’s most powerful corporation was still after them, not to mention the Pope of the PROMISED LAND—and now, the king of the underworld. Could anyone have more formidable foes? To make matters worse, the only way out of the office led straight into the arms of those enemies.

"Grab the cube and the notebook," Isaac called.

"But…"

"Just do it." Isaac went to the desk and felt beneath it for something. "Open sesame," he muttered, and suddenly there was a faint click. Billy turned toward the sound and saw the liquor cabinet, now weapon storage, had shifted slightly away from the wall.

"A hidden exit?"

"It’s not my first time here," Isaac replied shortly.

Billy watched as Isaac pushed the cabinet aside, revealing an old stone staircase that led upward.

"You’ll have some explaining to do," he said, chasing after his partner toward freedom.