THE SYNDICATE
THE SYNDICATE New York City The air inside Roux Coffee Shop carried a bitter tang of roasted beans, cut with the faint metallic whine of an overworked espresso machine. Carl sat alone in the far corner, his back against the wall, laptop angled so no one could peer over his shoulder. Steam rose from his espresso—black, no sugar, just as he liked it—curling into the faint morning light spilling through rain-speckled windows. Outside, Manhattan roared its daily chaos. Yellow taxis lurched through clogged intersections, horns bleating like frustrated animals. A bike courier whizzed past, nearly clipping a pedestrian who cursed after him. Life moved at its usual frantic pace. But Carl had long stopped marveling at the city’s rhythm. He wasn’t here for scenery anymore. By day, he was a cybersecurity analyst for the FBI . His badge carried weight. His colleagues saw him as another cog in the federal machine. But beneath the polished exterior lived a second ...
