Phoebe's POV
Harold had no other option but to fill me in quickly on Alistair's update. The moment he finished talking, I bolted upright in bed. "Where is he?" I snapped.
Armand was nothing more than some low-level street punk, yet somehow he'd managed to grab the attention of an international underground syndicate.
Something about him had to be drawing these dangerous types to him.
If we could just get Armand to talk properly, we might crack open whatever secrets that organization was hiding.
I could tell Harold was on the same wavelength as me. I couldn't just lie here doing nothing anymore—I was dying to get my hands on Armand and make him spill everything.
Harold wasn't about to let me go anywhere near an interrogation at this ungodly hour, especially knowing my brutal, take-no-prisoners approach. Armand wouldn't last five minutes with me. I'd probably torture him to death before we extracted a single useful piece of information.
