Peter Harding closed his office door with a sigh of relief. Talk about the hounds of hell. The press wasn’t going to go easy on him. Stern went straight for the bar and poured them both scotch, straight up. He handed Peter his and drank deeply from the glass he kept. Then he strolled over to the window and looked out.
Peter knew he would survive it. He had to. No, he was meant to. The storm would pass, and his troubles would be over, because RABBIT was gone. He tossed back half the glass, feeling the warm liquor rush into his bloodstream. “So far so good. When will your guys contact you?” Harding dropped into a chair, put his feet up on the desk, and held the glass up in a silent toast.
“I told them not to contact me for twenty-four hours, unless something went wrong. Just in case.” Ster
