When John and the others were about to tire of waiting, the target finally appeared in the hallway surveillance.
The heavy alloy door opened.
The room was permeated with the sweet, cloying aroma characteristic of whiskey.
Tommen Gark violently yanked open his tie, hung up the perpetually ringing phone, exhaled, and smiled, a hint of post-transaction exhilaration on his face.
He waved open the wardrobe, ready to choose a robe.
The alcohol dulled his nerves, clouding Tommen's thoughts; otherwise, he might have noticed the anomalies in the room sooner.
A Samurai Sword was placed against his shoulder.
The cold metal pressed tightly against his pulsating carotid artery.
Buzz—
The thin blade scraped over Tommen's rigid body and stood upright on his shoulder, reflecting his profile.
"How did the data pad die?"
John demanded in a deep voice.
Tommen's Adam's apple bobbed, his cybernetic eye flickered, and suddenly he clutched his head and howled in pain!
