To anyone else it might have looked like a scar or blemish. Blood pearled out and slipped over the side of the incision as MacKall pinched to extract the small capsule. When he had it, he held the microchip up between latex-gloved, crimson saturated fingers. "So this little thing is meant to wipe out a good chunk of the US?" MacKall mused as he lifted the microchip to the light. Logan reached over to the table and picked up a wad of gauze from the top of the package, taking it to press against the less than half-inch long incision to clot the bleeding. "One might guess it plays a big part at least," Logan gritted. "A trio of Russians dropped off a briefcase before I went into Conyers's apartment, and judging by Conyers's reaction, I believe what they delivered is now on that," he pointed to the chip MacKall rubbed between alcohol-dipped gauze. "I injected myself with that copy just before Conyers showed and his goon, Taj, hit me over the head. Conyers knows by now that I destroyed the original.
