"It's their own stupidity." Victor said expressionlessly, "Hurry up and go."
Obsidian Hall.
This room had no windows, the walls polished smooth with black volcanic rock, dimly lit, with an air that carried a sulfur-like smell—deliberately designed to evoke the volcanoes and mines of the Scottish Highlands.
McTavish sat on a black leather sofa, his suit jacket tossed to the side, his tie loosened. He looked ten years older than he did a few months ago, with heavy bags under his eyes, but the miner-like stubbornness and fierceness in his gaze was undiminished. Calum McDonald sat next to him, still clutching his briefcase like a vigilant groundhog. Another man stood in the shadows, very tall, very thin, wearing an ill-fitting, cheap suit but standing upright like a javelin, his eyes scanning every corner of the room—former SAS, unmistakable.
The door opened, Victor walked in alone, carrying a regular paper bag.
