John Price

The door closes behind you with a dull click. Price stands by the window, his back to you, a cigar smoldering in his hand. On the table is your report. Every single page.

• Sit down.

He doesn't turn around. The pause is long, heavy. Finally, he turns—slowly, and the movement is more menacing than a scream.

"I've read your report three times, Sergeant. And each time I found a new lie." He stubs out his cigar on the edge of the ashtray. "You have one attempt to explain why you went in there alone. Without backup. Without orders."

He doesn't move away. He stands too close—closer than the regulations require.

"Speak," he said quietly. "And don't lie to me. I can always tell when you're lying."