GARRISON

The electronic chirp of the phone cut through the cavernous quiet of the warehouse like a gunshot.

I stood over the smoking incinerator barrel, the taste of blood coating the back of my throat. My knuckles burned where they had connected with the enforcer's jaw, and a steady trail of heat dripped from the reopened gash on my forehead, but the physical pain didn't exist. My entire world had just shrunk down to the half-charred paper resting in my palms.

The deception is complete.

Edward Vance's aggressive cursive seemed to burn right through the blackened leather cover. It wasn't a corporate bank register. It was a private medical dossier...