Chapter 22. When Gregor Samson opened his eyes, he immediately wished that he hadn't.

It was a sensation that an agent of the Red Panda could expect to experience more than once,

but Samson never did get used to it. His head throbbed like it was on fire, and his right

eye was almost swollen shut, but he could make out three man-sized shapes lurking just beyond

the pool of light. His arms were pinned behind him and half asleep from the strain. Samson knew

at once they were handcuffed to the hard wooden chair he was slumped forward in. He tried to peer around

as best he could, but the only light in the room was from a single bulb burning high over his head. There was a strange, acrid smell in the air, full of must, but stale and almost

lost to sense. Were Samson a less experienced investigator, or were he not struggling to

analyze every minute detail for some advantage, he might have never noticed it.

One of the men stepped forward into the light. His footsteps echoed against the hard cement floor

as if the room were much bigger than it looked, a warehouse maybe. The man was perhaps forty,

with a wiry build and a cold smile frozen upon his thin lips. His suit and hat suggested

one who was well placed, but not himself well off. He stopped four paces away from Samson

and placed his hands upon his hips, as if exceedingly pleased with himself.

"'Hello, Mr. Grant. Remember us?' he said with a leer.

"'How could I forget?' Samson snarled in return.

"'What do you ladies want?'

The wiry man scowled momentarily.

"'There is no need for that, Mr. Grant.

"'I think you will find that this will be easier if you do not make me angry,

"'or if not easier, at least quicker, for which you will find that this will be easier if you do not make me angry, or if not easier,

at least quicker, for which you will be very grateful.

...