"Choose, Bisma," Minister Vance whispered chillingly. "Choose right now."
The silence inside the mahogany-paneled library study was deafening, stretched thin like a wire about to snap under unimaginable tension. The soft, rhythmic crackle of the radio transmitter on the desk amplified the panic-stricken screams coming through from the North Zurich communications bunker, creating a horrific contrast against the ambient classical piano music still playing softly from the record player.
Bisma did not lower his weapon. His tactical sidearm remained locked onto Minister Vance's forehead, his grip absolute stone despite the blood dripping steadily from his sliced cheek and bruised shoulder. His dark eyes, cold and hollowed by six years of betrayal, shifted fractions of an inch toward Meira.
