Chapter 8Kyle shifted the duffel bag hanging over his shoulder to a more comfortable position and smothered a yawn as he entered WBIS headquarters. At seven A.M, he’d had less than four hours sleep, and his ass was dragging. That was one of the reasons he wouldn’t make a good agent; he couldn’t get by on less than eight hours sleep. Not that he wouldn’t try, just that he’d be pretty much good for nothing. It had been almost two when he got home, and even then, he’d had things to do before he could go to bed—the shirt and trousers he’d worn at the Rib Shack had to be washed and dried, given a touchup with his travel iron, and folded. At least he had a stackable washer/drier, unlike some apartments on this floor, whose occupants had to use the communal machines in the laundry room at the end
