Bob was not happy. Sarah had been kidnapped. An international cult thought that he was the Antichrist.
Bob was going to save Sarah. To do that, he needed to think. Right now; as the helicopter blades roared above him; before he could decide whether to stay here or go back to New York.
He closed his eyes. Now he was in his small black room. The walls were soft. He could touch them and feel the polyrhythmic pulse of the world. The flow of economies, the currents of information, the infrastructures, the systems, beating out their irresistible patterns.
How was Rota Fracta connected to this pulse? For one thing, they were connected to explosives manufacturers, people with explosives expertise. But that could be low in the organization. He didn't have time to start that low. How else were they connected? They were connected to history. They did research. They had archives. They had valuable, rare documents.
A familiar calm overtook his body and mind as he scanned his small black room. He could hear them now, shuffling their papers. Their precious, conspicuous papers. His hand tightened on his sword.
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