Day lay in the dusty pavement where the fake FBI agents had left him, one kick to his prone body convincing them he was dead or dying, and listened as the engines faded into the distance. He’d get up in a moment, he told himself. He just needed a second to get his breath back, and then he’d deal with his arm. Consciousness faded in and out. Each time he became aware, pain greeted him…and something else. Something important he needed to do. He opened his eyes and stared up at the sun, which beat down on his weary body, wincing as it blinded him. Groaning, he tried to roll to his side to get away, but agony sliced through him and blackness claimed him again. “Dayton Vann, you idle son of a bitch, wake up.” Day flinched at the slap on the side of his face. A shadow of a figure stood over him, blotting out the sun. Something pushed him over to his back. “Don’t make me repeat myself, boy,”
