Shadows Beneath the Golden Angel
Fortunately, at that moment, a black Maybach rolled smoothly to a stop in front of them.
The engine purred softly as the car glided to a halt outside the West City Police Station, its polished body reflecting the pale streetlights. Headlights washed over the pavement, stretching long shadows across the entrance steps.
For a brief second, everything felt oddly still.
Then the rear door opened with quiet elegance—
And Mike Valquin stepped out.
He moved quickly, like someone who had come in a hurry. His blonde hair was slightly messy, strands falling over his forehead as if he had run his hand through it too many times on the drive over. His blue eyes swept across the scene with casual curiosity at first—
Then they stopped.
Completely.
He blinked once.
Looked again.
Julian D'Aurelius stood there.
And both of his arms were occupied.
