4
Brooke recognized one of the three guards at the main desk of the Draconis plant—ex-military, all of them. Pleading would do no good, but a direct frontal assault might work.
“Brooke Chappelle for my appointment with Dylan Knox,” she said, trying for the right tone of aggrieved professionalism.
Eyebrows lifted, but the face of the guard she’d met had a knowing look. He’d obviously heard the news and likely thought her reappearance was part of the company’s damage control. If he called ahead, she was screwed. But he didn’t.
“Follow me, please.” He led her along a series of corridors to an office that was no larger than any other she’d seen. Perhaps Draconis was a pretty egalitarian place. The door was open, but the guard knocked anyway.
“Mr. Knox? Ms. Chappelle for your appointment,
