I didn’t answer him.
I reached out, unclipped the plastic RFID parking transponder from my rearview mirror, and held it out through the two-inch gap in the glass.
Nick snatched it with a triumphant flick of his wrist:
“Thank you,” Nick sneered. “Now get off the property. Carter and I have an emergency briefing with the board of directors at ten.”
Carter Holbrook did not look at the transponder.
The sixty-two-year-old billionaire stepped closer to my door, his cold blue eyes locking onto my right sleeve—where the smear of dried arterial blood remained caked into the white cotton:
“You had a busy morning, young man,” Carter said softly.
His voice was a deep, velvet baritone that resonated through the glass like an iron bell tolling over an open grave:
“Route Six. The Lookout Mountain curve.”
My breath caught in my windpipe like an iron wedge.
I looked straight into Carter Holbrook’s eyes:
