Late afternoon. PEEVER SENT THE OTHER AGENT OUT OF THE ROOM AND FOR THE next few minutes I stayed still, pinned to the ground as if the force of gravity had increased by a thousand percent. When Peever’s guy returned, he was carrying a black box, like an old-fashioned transistor radio. He set it at the center of my desk, flicked a switch, checked its display, then nodded. “OK.” Peever pointed to the box. “This thing will block the signal of anything else that’s transmitting in here. It means we can talk.” No one said anything, giving me a respite to focus on Peever in the hope of escaping my mental merry-go-round. It struck me that if McKenna would be at home working in a bank, this guy would be better suited to delivering your groceries. He was around six foot, but looked shorter because he was so stocky. His two-day stubble didn’t match his swept-back bleached hair, which looked like it had been transplanted from a My Little Pony doll. And neither could deflect attention from the unruly straggle that was escaping from his undone top button.
