“Shut your mouth and listen to me,” said Stafford in a voice pitched loudly enough for everyone to hear him. “You have one chance left—just one—to stop this bullshit and get back to work.”

Darmana looked around and saw the doubt and confusion on everyone’s faces. And she saw it transform into alarm and then fear. She turned back to see that the man in black had stepped forward. Behind him, the other two men pushed off from the SUV. One turned toward the onlookers, and the other came over to stand close to the knot of protesters. These men did not smile. They didn’t speak.

Another pair of men got out of the vehicle and produced cell phones. They held them up with the lenses facing the crowd.

“Livestreaming now, sir,” said one, and the other said he was as well.

Darmana glanced down at her phone, but it still said NO SIGNAL. That made no sense to her. How could her phone—and all the other phones—be jammed and yet allow the two men to livestream? It was a kind of technology she didn’t understand. And a chill began creeping up her spine. Something bad was about to happen, but she couldn’t imagine what. Why would these people video anything? It seemed the opposite of what thugs like this would want.

She looked up into the eyes of the tall, silent man standing close to her. At his face. At his eyes. Moments ago, he’d looked calm, detached, uninvolved with the corporate drama being played out, letting Stafford do all the talking. Now the man’s eyes were filled with life, with strange lights. His mouth trembled as if he were fighting back laughter, but there was a fever brightness to his eyes. Sweat beaded on his cheeks and upper lip. Once more, Darmana glanced down to see if he had any weapons, but he was unarmed.

The man who called himself Stafford patted the taller man’s shoulder. He spoke in a language Darmana didn’t recognize. She thought it might have been German, but she met so few foreigners except the upper management, and they were usually French or British. She had no idea what the man said.

What filled her mind was what happened immediately after.

The man in black began trembling. Shuddering. Only a little at first, the way someone would if they felt a pecong walk over their grave. But the shudder grew instantly worse, and within moments, the man in black looked like he was being electrocuted. Or having an orgasm. There was a strange and appalling ecstasy on his face, twisting otherwise handsome features into a parody of pain or lust. Or both.