1
“You’re in my chair!”
“Comfortable.” Massar tipped back and planted the heels of his cheap rubber-soled Rockports on the corner of Mike’s desk. A pebble of asphalt stuck in the heel tread had Mike Munroe wincing.
He dropped into one of the client chairs on the wrong side of his own desk. In these chairs—cut lower, but too subtly to consciously bother the most practiced observer—Mike now sat a few crucial centimeters of perceived superiority lower than Massar. And it was Mike’s job to know that perception was everything.
“Just—” he didn’t know what. He could feel Agent Rob Massar’s cheap FBI suit soiling his eight-thousand-dollar RECARO Sportster CS office chair, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. Massar’s hidden carry at the small of his back was probably carving a hole in the tigh
