When she saw me walking toward the security turnstiles, her face drained of all color:
“Mr….
Mr.
Miller…?”
Jenny stammered, her hands hovering over her telephone extension:
“Nick… Mr.
Sterling gave explicit instructions to the building security… He said you were not permitted past the reception desk!”
“I’m here for my personal effects, Jenny,” I said softly.
My voice had no anger.
It carried that quiet, terrifying, sixty-cycle baseline that had governed three years of commercial campaigns:
“My family photographs on desk fourteen.”
“My grandfather’s brass drafting compass.”
“And the leather-bound client ledger that belongs to my personal consulting charter.”
Jenny swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the frosted-glass conference room at the end of the central hallway where Nick and Carter Holbrook were currently presiding over an emergency all-hands meeting of the agency’s executive staff.
