–Damon–
I don't even know why we're under arrest. No guns. No blood on our hands. Our bodyguard? Not a professional—just a rookie with too-soft eyes. That's exactly why I picked him. Soft faces hide the sharpest knives.
They're whispering Interpol, a murder in Chile. Cute. We've never been to Chile. Now we're stuck in some windowed box—double-glazed, clinical, no sightline to the outside. White light and the smell of disinfectant. The kind of place that makes people confess to sins they never committed.
The cuffs are laughable. Easy to pick—but theatrics have their use. I'll let the lawyers do the running. Let the men in suits work for their hourly rates.
They want to intimidate. Fine. Caine and I have flight logs. Everything is clean and traceable. We aren't illegal here—our papers are as neat as a tailor's stitch.
"Boss!" Gerald squealed as they snapped the cuffs on him. He's breathing loudly, a child gripping a blanket.
