Court sagged low on the couch, frustrated and confused. But then he nodded to himself. Softly he said, “Carmichael needed an excuse to kill me, so he came up with a cover story. He had to erase the AAP. Terminate all the participants . . . But they couldn’t breathe a word about it to anyone. They blamed me for some imaginary screwup.”

“Whatever you say, dude,” Travers said. He hadn’t heard everything, because Court had been speaking to himself.

Court ignored him and stood up slowly.

“What are you going to do?” Travers asked, letting a little nervousness show in his voice now.

“I’m leaving. You are useless. You know even less about what went down than I do.” Then he said, “Stand up.”

Travers did so. Court reached into his coat and pulled out zip ties. The other man’s eyes widened just a little, but he made no comment.

Court said, “Your lucky day, right? You know how to get out of these in five seconds. Put them on. Behind your back.”

Travers followed Gentry’s orders, confused. He did know how to defeat zip ties, even when his arms were fastened behind his back, but if Gentry knew this already, why was he using them?

When his arms were secured, Court walked up to him and spun him around. A second later Travers heard the sound of thick duct tape being pulled from a roll.

“You motherfucker,” he mumbled. The zip ties were just to keep his hands down while Court restrained him in a way that would be much harder to defeat.

—

Five minutes later Travers’s arms and hands were completely secured, from the shoulders all the way down to the fingertips, with an entire roll of duct tape. His ankles were bound with wires from two table lamps. He sat on the floor, arms outstretched behind him like a single wing, and his feet in front of him, lashed together.

Once Court was finished he knelt over the other man and surveyed his work. “You look ridiculous,” he said.

“I’ve got to piss.”

“Just think of that as additional incentive.” Court patted the other man on the head. “Good to see you, Chris.” He headed for the door.

“Fuck you. Seriously, how the hell am I supposed to get out of this?”

Court flipped off the overhead in the living room. The only remaining light was from the street, filtering in through the curtains. He said, “If this equation takes you more than ten minutes to solve, then you are a poor excuse for an asset.” Court reached for the door latch.

Travers called after him. “Hey, Court?”

“Yeah?”