“General? You? Don’t make me laugh.”
I lowered the phone a few inches but kept the line live.
“Chief Harris, do not touch this device.”
His face changed at the title.
Not because he respected it.
Because I had used it back at him.
“You don’t give orders in my house,” he said.
“It isn’t your house. It’s my mother’s.”
That was the line that did it.
Not the Pentagon.
Not the secure device.
Not the word general.
The house.
Some men can tolerate your success as long as it does not disturb their furniture.
Michael crossed the kitchen in three hard steps and grabbed my wrist.
His fingers dug into the bones below my palm.
I could have broken the grip in less than a second.
I could have turned him into the table before Tyler’s camera even caught the motion.
I had done harder things in darker rooms with less warning.
