Derek stared down at the wet blue ink spreading across the refusal line, his mouth opening without a sound.

“You’re twenty-eight years old, Derek,” I said, slipping the gold fountain pen into my upper coat pocket.

“Your business debts are yours to deal with.”

He looked up at me with sudden anger, but I stepped past him before he could say another word.

The stage holding room at the end of the corridor was silent and smelled of floor wax and old leather bindings.

General Thomas Vance sat at the head of the dark oak conference table, his wire-rimmed glasses resting on a square of white silk next to a yellow legal pad.