He was digging a small crimson impression into Chris Rodke’s forehead with the barrel. He knew that it was essential time to control one’s temper while holding a gun, but the images in his head were telling a different story. He wanted to decimate this kid. He wanted to splatter his brains all over the car window. He wanted to see him bleed. But he had to maintain control. He had to keep his finger off the trigger. Because he needed the information. His trap had worked to perfection. With that soldier’s one overheard conversation, he’d been able to contrive a perfectly plausible fake e-mail from this General Colter to Chris. All he’d needed was a fake e-mail address and for Chris to take the bait, which he’d obviously been young and stupid enough to do. Now he had Chris where he wanted him, and he had no intention of wasting any more time. The city was racing by them through the window, and Gaia was out there somewhere. He needed to know where they were going. He needed an address for his driver in the next sixty seconds.
