Squaring CirclesThe door burst open and Wilson Frement strode into the room, throwing his coat into the corner without a care. He went to his desk and paused, looking out of the window to the city below. Fires continued to smoulder, despite the riots having been totally squashed. He put his hands on his hips and gnawed at his lips. When he heard the tiny cough behind him, he didn't turn around.
“I want him dead,” he said quietly, but with his voice simmering with barely controlled anger.
Michael Hamon stepped up to Wilson's side. “That's not going to be easy, sir.”
“I don't give a monkey's toss if it's easy or not, I want him dead.” He flattened both palms against the windowpane and squeezed his eyes shut. “That bastard is holding up everything.”
“Perhaps he's worked it all out, sir. P
