The rain over the River Thames fell in heavy, rhythmic sheets, turning the Victorian stone of the Victoria Embankment into black, slick ice. The Acheron II, a decommissioned deep-sea freighter modified with stealth plating, sat anchored in the fog near the Isle of Dogs, looking like nothing more than industrial scrap waiting for the breaker's yard.Inside the vessel’s cramped, iron-walled bridge, Leon Ardent adjusted the collar of a dark cashmere coat. The sling on his shoulder was gone, replaced by a high-grade compression bandage that allowed him full range of motion, though every sharp movement sent a spike of heat down his spine."The London financial grid is completely insulated," Elena said, her fingers dancing across three transparent screens mounted on a steel rack. The blue light illuminated her face, drawing sharp shadows under her cheekbones. "Julian Ardent doesn't operate from a traditional office. He runs his network out of the Spire at Canary Wharf—specifically, the top