TWENTY-EIGHT
Councillor Kelvin Dillon stormed down the stairs behind David Flanders.
‘I’m going to kill every single one of these wardens with my bare hands,’ he growled, rubbing at a stitch in his side as he raced to the front door. Here he was forced to stop, to lean over and catch his breath after his mad dash to the ground floor. Then, rage still burning through his body, he forced himself to straighten.
‘Sir, I don’t believe the wardens are responsible,’ David said, not looking at all out of breath after tackling the stairs two at a time. Curse him.
‘Don’t be stupid. Of course, it’s the wardens. Who else would try to rescue the ones you captured last night? Not that you managed to hold on to them for long.’ He shot the leader of his security forces a black look, voice hard at the
