Zane's heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, each beat a deafening thud in his ears. He was still on his knees, the rough texture of the concrete digging into his palms, his world a dizzying smear of grey pillars and oppressive darkness. The two men guarding them stood a few feet away, their silhouettes tense and alert. The driver was a coiled spring of nervous energy, his head constantly snapping toward the secluded corner where John had dragged Franz.
"What the fuck is taking them so long?" the burly man with the shaved head growled, his voice a low, angry rasp that echoed in the cavernous building. "He's taking a piss, not signing a treaty." He shifted his grip on his rifle, jaw clenched tight. "Fine. I'll go check myself."
He jerked his head at the other gunman. "You. With me."
