Turning the ScrewsThe room was vast, row upon row of chairs and tables, set in a sort of semi-circle, like an amphitheatre Wilson thought. Romans. The Coliseum. He'd seen a film about that ancient monument once, before they tore the whole thing down to make way for the new, virtual reality mock-up where kids could go and play at being gladiators. Fight the lions, race chariots. Get spiked by a three-pronged fork held up by a large, black guy with biceps the size of tree trunks.
This was no Coliseum.
But people might die here.
Wilson chewed at his bottom lip. The nerves were jangling inside. Five minutes ago, he had taken two large shots of bourbon and now he was wishing he hadn't. Voices were distant, as if they were lost in a long tunnel, and he had difficulty keeping his concentration
