Federal interrogation rooms were designed to break people.
Four white walls. One metal table. Two chairs. A mirror that was obviously one-way glass. Fluorescent lights that hummed at a frequency designed to induce anxiety. I had been sitting here for six hours with no water, no phone, no contact with anyone.
Director Chen finally entered with coffee and a file folder.
"Drink," she ordered, sliding the cup across. "You look like hell."
"Funny. I feel worse." I did not touch the coffee. "Where is my family? Albert, Victoria, the others—"
"Separate facilities. Being questioned about X, about the clubs, about six hundred dead bikers whose deaths can be traced back to your war." Chen opened the folder. "You are in significant legal trouble, Ms. Morrison. But I am offering a deal. Full coop
