The door to Kyle's room opened at precisely 9:30 AM. Not Isabeau, but one of the guards—the buzz-cut ex-military type who'd been almost apologetic throughout Kyle's captivity. "Time to go," the man said simply, gesturing toward the hallway.
Kyle stood, adjusting the tailored suit jacket over his bandaged shoulder. The wound throbbed beneath the expensive fabric, but the pain had dulled to a manageable ache. He followed the guard through corridors he barely remembered from last night's drugged haze, down a service elevator, and out into a back courtyard bathed in morning sunlight.
