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sticks his head out, and says something I can’t quite hear. A moment later, Special Agents Wallis and Johnson come back into the room.
    Josh closes the door behind them and stands behind me. Agent Johnson sits down opposite me, with Agent Wallis standing behind him. I look up and notice the red light is back on the CCTV camera.
    “Are you going to formally charge my client?” asks Josh, back in character as the tough, British lawyer.
    Agent Johnson glances behind him then looks at me.
    “Despite the circumstances surrounding his arrest, we don't intend to press charges following Mr. Hell’s assault of an FBI agent at this time.”
    “Good, then you can take the restraints off him.”
    Wallis steps forward and produces a key from his pocket. He unlocks the handcuffs, allowing me to pull my hands free. I massage each wrist in turn, getting the blood flowing back to them.
    “Thanks,” I say. “So, you were about to ask me for help?”
    “Reluctantly, yes, we were,” replies Johnson.
    “So, go ahead.”
    “Are you aware of the recent terrorist attacks that have taken place in this city in the last seventy-two hours?”
    “Attacks?” I say. “I’ve not heard of anything, no. I only arrived in town yesterday afternoon, and I’m not one to follow the news.”
    Agent Wallis steps toward the table with another folder in his hand. This one he opens and turns around for me to read through.
    “Yesterday morning, a bomb went off in a restaurant in Chinatown,” he explains. “There were over fifty casualties, with a further twelve fatalities.”
    “Oh, wait—I think I saw this on the news. There was a TV with it on in the place I ate yesterday when I arrived here. Looked pretty bad…”
    I skim through the folder. It contains lots of photographs, both black and white and color, taken at the scene. It looks like total carnage—worse than the TV had said. Bodies and body parts littered the remains of the annihilated restaurant, and the street outside. There’s a report attached which seems to detail witness statements and forensic information, but I don’t bother reading it.
    “Jesus,” I say quietly.
    I close the folder and pass it over my shoulder to Josh, who takes it and starts flicking through.
    “Two days ago,” continues Wallis. “There was a seemingly random sniper attack outside the Trans-America Pyramid, with two people being shot dead from roughly seven hundred yards away.”
    “ Seemingly random?” asks Josh.
    “I’ll get to that,” he says. “Both victims were shot through their right eye. Whoever pulled the trigger was exceptionally talented.”
    I wouldn’t say they were exceptional … Seven hundred yards is a good distance, sure, but it’s not earth shattering. Any half-decent sniper with six months of military training could hit a target at that distance. Admittedly, getting them in the right eye is a little more impressive, but it’s still no cause for concern.
    “So, you think there’s a link between the two attacks?” I ask.
    Before either of them have chance to answer, the door opens and a woman walks in. She’s an average height, maybe five-six, and is wearing a gray trouser suit and black heels. When she speaks, her voice is a perfect blend of icy authority and warm comfort.
    “I’ll take it from here,” she announces.
    Agents Wallis and Johnson excuse themselves and leave the room. She sits down opposite me and regards me silently for a moment before speaking. Her jacket’s open and I can see her gun strapped to a shoulder holster over her white blouse.
    “I’m Senior Special Agent Grace Chambers,” she says, staring at me with steel-gray eyes that look out of place on her otherwise welcoming and friendly face. “I’m well aware of who you are and what you do for a living.” She glances up at Josh. “Both of you.”
    I raise an eyebrow at her. She’s very well informed, that’s for sure. Apparently, more so than her colleagues are, if she knows who Josh