Victor Lang

The black-site’s interrogation room was a coffin of concrete and fluorescent glare, the kind of place where men like me broke others without breaking a sweat. But I was the one chained to the steel chair now, wrists raw from cuffs, my tux shredded, blood crusted on my lip from Elena’s final punch. The FBI agents, clean-cut, by-the-book drones, hovered outside the glass, their eyes on me like I was a zoo exhibit. Montoya was dead, her loyalists scattered or cuffed, the airstrip a ...