The door closed gently.
Song Heping's footsteps on the carpeted corridor gradually receded, finally disappearing in the direction of the elevator.
In the office, time seemed to freeze.
Walker sat motionless in the chair, his eyes fixed on the photos on the table.
Those clear equipment serial numbers, those glaring asset tags, that close-up of the satellite phone screen...
They were like red-hot branding irons, scorching his retinas, burning into his soul.
Then, suddenly, he moved.
He stood up abruptly, his arm sweeping across the table, knocking everything to the floor.
Papers fluttered like snowflakes, the coffee cup shattered against the wall, ink splattered everywhere.
He stood up and kicked the chair over, grabbed the stainless steel ashtray, and hurled it at the wall with all his might.
"I want him dead!"
