Sam jerked himself upright and pinched himself for the umpteenth time. What time was it?

He checked his armband before remembering that something in the walls here disabled most of its functions—including the clock.

He sighed and tried to wiggle into a less comfortable position. Would slapping his own face trigger violence sensors? He thought it might help him stay awake.

Out in the corridor, something clanked, and then a door whooshed. Voices rose in angry argument.

No, not voices. A voice.

A voice Sam knew.

That was Wilson Cartier. What was he doing in here? Had he done something so heinous that even Mackey’s officers couldn’t ignore it?

Sam started to smile.

But then, a panel on the wall next to him started to slide open. Lig...

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