Chapter 8.

Roland.

So you were there, right?

Sardar asked.

You saw the White House burn?

Sardar was Jim's mechanic.

He was a short, slightly pudgy kid with a wide, handsome face and skin a couple shades darker

than Roland's own.

This was maybe his 20th question since Jim's aircraft

had dropped their transport off two hours ago. The other members of Jim's team hadn't said

so much as a word to Roland. They'd all listen, though. He could see the tension in their shoulders

and feel the vibrations in the air as their ears twitched and their eyes darted over to

watch his replies. The fact that they were all cramped

together inside the armored confines of a Mattis APC made it easy to read the room. Roland wasn't 100%

sure if the young Merck had been put up to the task of questioning him, or if Sardar was just an

inquisitive soul. Roland smelled a light drizzle of nervousness waft off the boy. He'd caught several

glances between Sardar and Bigsby, but neither of those facts were proof of anything.

Nervousness was a perfectly natural reaction to hanging out in a cramped metal box with a guy

you'd just been trying to murder. I remember pieces of it, Roland replied, fucking somebody in the Lincoln bedroom, stealing liquor from the kitchens,

"'shitting in the ball return to the White House bowling alley.'

"'Sardar shook his head.

"'That's fucking loco.

...