As the car rolled to a stop beneath the concrete awning of the Joint Task Force Hotel, the atmosphere shifted from the kinetic energy of the hunt to the sterile, claustrophobic tension of the "processing" phase. This was no luxury establishment; it was a repurposed government guesthouse, a place of high ceilings, flickering fluorescent lights, and the faint, pervasive scent of industrial floor wax and stale tea. In the world of the Midlands, this hotel was a limbo—a place where administrative standing went to die.
Ambrose Ward stepped out of the vehicle, his face a mask of cold, professional detachment. He didn’t look at Wayne Yorke, who was being escorted out of the passenger side by two stony-faced agents. Yorke looked like a man walking toward his own gallows, his "white shirt" now dam
