With those final words, Ambrose Ward turned on his heel and exited the interrogation room, the heavy door clicking shut with a sound like a guillotine blade.
Inside the small, sterile sequestration room, Wayne Yorke stared at the blank grey surface of the door, his face a mask of frantic, bitter despair.
Hospitality? The word felt like a jagged piece of glass in his throat. He looked around at the narrow cot, the small desk bolted to the floor, and the single, flickering fluorescent light that hummed with an irritating, high-pitched buzz. To be isolated in a tiny unit at the Joint Task Force Hotel, stripped of his phone and his freedom—this wasn't "hospitality." It was a cage. Ambrose had promised he would feel "at home," but Wayne felt like a ghost haunting the ruins of his own career.
