22
As Randall Lenz had promised, no one had tried to stop us from walking out the front door of the facility. I’d kept my head down and tried to look cowed, like a prisoner being escorted from one jail cell to another. As far as I could tell, the guards on duty had bought the act. Probably, they couldn’t wrap their heads around the possibility that the man in charge of the whole place had decided to turn traitor.
Honestly, I was still having a hard time wrapping my head around the concept, too. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, kept thinking that this had to be an elaborate ruse on his part, some kind of subtle psychological torture designed to see how far he could lead me along a high wire before he pushed me off.
Or at least, that was what I thought, right up until the moment
