Fifty-eight.
Fifty-seven.
The digital numbers seemed to echo in the cavernous silence of the Thorne Tech lobby. Julian kept his weapon perfectly level, his sights locked onto the bridge of the Old Man's nose. His finger rested on the trigger, a millimeter of pressure away from ending the nightmare.
But the black smartphone in the older man's hand was a shield harder than Kevlar.
You are calculating the bullet's velocity, Julian, the Old Man said, a patronizing smile curving his lips. You are wondering if a hollow point to the brain stem will shut down my central nervous system before the electrical impulse in my thumb falters. It is a gamble. Are you willing to bet your newborn son's life on a fraction of a millisecond?
I am willing to bet that you do not want to die in my lobby, Juli
