As the heavy glass doors of the Joint Task Force Hotel loomed behind him, a cold sweat broke out across Wayne Yorke’s forehead, despite the evening chill. His mind was a frantic hive of activity, buzzing with a single, desperate question: Why me?
In the grand hierarchy of the Midlands, he was a small fry—a useful cog, perhaps, but certainly not a lion worth the focused attention of a predator like Ambrose Ward. He was a middle-manager, a man who moved papers and smoothed over minor financial irregularities. So why was Ambrose, the man who had the ears of the Provincial Committee, treating him like he was the key to the entire kingdom?
Does he know? The thought hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. How could he possibly know?
His mind immediately drifted to Lynn Graves. They had s
