Sarah hammered the mahogany with her palm.
"Jeffrey! Open the door!"
Inside, a fork clinked against a plate. The sound of a man who wasn't dying of thirst.
The door cracked five inches. Jerome stood there, his white collar stained with yellow sweat. He was holding a Glock 17. He’d racked the slide—the red safety dot looked like a drop of blood in the dim light.
"Step back, Sarah," Jerome said. His voice was thin, the sound of a man losing his grip.
Jeffrey appeared behind him. He looked fresh. He held a crystal glass with a slice of lemon.
"The math is the math, Sarah," Jeffrey said. "You fed them. Now they’re thirsty. That’s your problem, not mine. I’m saving the reserve for people who matter."
Rex Beck stepped out of the crowd. He was a retired tank driver with a face like an ol
