Tara Beaner, behind the unpolished green granite security desk, machine-gunned words into the phone handset while staring at me in appalled horror. Once she hung that phone up, she’d call other security officers to help her.
Help her restrain me.
Thought oozed through my skull like toxic sludge.
Restrain me? That was not going to happen.
Lucy’s life, MacConnor’s life, were in someone else’s hands now.
Takamoto.
The upper security office had a weapons locker. The glass-doored cabinet stood right behind Beaner. Each day I checked out a taser at the beginning of shift and returned it at the end.
But above the tasers—the flechette pistols. A thousand tiny razor blades in each shell. The glass in front of them said BREAK IN CASE OF EMERGENCY. A single flechette round would strip Takamoto
