The interior of the executive shuttle fell into a sudden, suffocating silence. It was a vacuum of sound where even a heartbeat seemed deafening. The ten other members of the Joint Investigation Task Force sat frozen in their seats, their eyes darting between Victor Sinclair at the front and Ambrose Ward in the center.
It was unheard of. In the strictly choreographed ballet of Midlands bureaucracy, a Grade III — Assistant Director did not countermand a Deputy Commissioner—certainly not in front of a busload of subordinates. The driver’s hands hovered over the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, caught in the crossfire of two conflicting verbal directives.
Victor Sinclair felt a vein throb in his temple. He turned in his seat, his face darkening with a mixture of embarra
