CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Franklin paced the width of the room, chafing at the wasted time.
‘You do realise it’s Sunday, Franklin?’ a smartarse asked. He had the heavy, bleary-eyed look of a big night and not enough sleep.
‘It can’t wait.’
Someone sniggered across the room. He didn’t know what about specifically but flushed anyway.
At least half the crew thought he was a moron. Take a ticket as to why. Seeing him c***k it and walk out the other day. Pulling an urgent briefing this morning. Having his girlfriend tag along.
He scanned the room as a local D dawdled through the door. She yawned widely and groaned. A round of fake applause followed, probably from the same smartarse.
He stifled his own yawn, and did a series of blinks in an effort to clear the sandy, gritty sensation in his eye
