Chapter 117

The hum of jet engines faded as Keegan descended the steps of his private plane while the black overcoat on his shoulders caught the early morning light. His boots hit the tarmac with ease. A line of men in sleek suits stood awaiting him, backs straight, hands clasped behind them. And a s soon as his feet touched solid ground, they saluted.

He nodded once before he retrieved two ziploc bags from inside his coat. One contained a single strand of honey-brown hair. The other, a stubbed cigar from Bartholomew Blackwood’s table.

“You know what to do with it,” Keegan said as he handed the evidence to his trusted aide. “I want results as soon as possible.”

The man took the bags with a nod and disappeared into one of the blacked-out cars that had pulled up.

Without another word, Keegan turned and entered the building. It was an inconspicuous skyscraper masked in glass and clean lines, the corporate symbol of his empire. He went straight to his private elevator and as