I end up getting held up with a patient, and it’s ten minutes after three by the time I rush into the cafe.
“I was just about to leave,” Ryson says, standing up from a small table in the corner.
“So sorry about that.” Breathless, I slide into the seat across from him. “I promise to make this quick.”
Ryson sits down again. The server comes by, and we place our orders: a shot of espresso for him and a cup of decaf coffee for me. My jitters don’t need the added caffeine today.
“All right,” he says when the server is gone. “Go ahead.”
“I need to know more about this fugitive,” I say without preamble. “Who is he? Why was he after George?”
Ryson’s bushy eyebrows pull together. “You know that’s classified.”
“I do, but I also know that this man waterboarded me, drugged me, and killed my hus
