What is your choice, Bisma?" Vance whispered smoothly into the cold air.
Bisma did not answer with words. The air in Minister Vance's private study seemed to freeze into solid glass as the countdown on the phone screen ticked down second by second. His eyes, dark and unreadable, remained locked on the politician's face for one long, agonizing heartbeat. Then, without a sound, Bisma shifted his stance, drove his heavy boot into Vance's chest, sending the minister crashing violently against his mahogany bookshelves, and turned on his heel toward the private elevator.
Behind him, Zuan lay unconscious, a pool of dark blood spreading from his broken nose across the Persian rug. Vance groaned on the floor, clutching his fractured ribs, staring in stunned disbelief as Bisma vanished into the
