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“You’re right,” he says. “That would work.”
The door to our room opens and an operative walks in, his rifle in hand, aimed at the ground. A stirring tension tightens my spine. Though he’s wearing his helmet, covering his face, he’s clearly staring at us. Something’s going on. Something isn’t right. I turn to Ingram, who watches the man, his expression suddenly intense.
“Is there a problem?” he says. With one hand he makes a fist. With the other, he reaches for his phone.
This isn’t right.
“Your plan won’t work,” says the man.
His voice…
“Excuse me?” says Ingram.
The man raises his rifle and points it at Ingram as he takes off his helmet.
My vision centers on the gun’s barrel, but I don’t have to see his face. I’d know the voice anywhere.
“Jamison Hardt is dead,” says Anton. “And you two are next.”
