A Warehouse SomewhereWhen the door opened, a gust of wind blasted through into the large room and the guard shouted, “f*****g well shut it!” Then he saw who it was and his stomach rolled over. “Sorry, sir. I didn't—”
“Where is he?”
The guard motioned to a smaller alcove room at the far end of the empty warehouse. Michael Hamon pushed past the guard without another word and strode to the door. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
They had him on a hospital trolley, arms and legs strapped down, a gag in his mouth. His eyes were wide and blood-shot, hair matted over his creased face, the pain etched deep. He muttered something as Hamon drew closer and leaned over him, as if studying a medical specimen. “Has he told us anything?”
“Not yet Mr Harmon, sir.” The white-coated attendant steppe
