Chapter 11: Interrogation at the Muzzle Oliver Warner knelt in a pooling slurry of rain and grit, his breath hitching like an old engine on the verge of detonation. Fresh blood trekked down his temple, mingling with the downpour that plastered his expensive shirt to his skin. It wasn't the biting chill of the rain that made Oliver’s teeth chatter. It was the muzzle of the silver Desert Eagle pressed firmly against the center of his forehead. The metal was cold, steady, and utterly merciless. The woman before him, Claire, stood as rigid as a monument to the grim reaper. Her black trench coat was sodden, her short hair slicked against her cheeks, but her gaze remained razor sharp. She had just saved his life from a feral vampire at the train station, but the way she brandished her weapon now suggested anything but a friendly greeting. "Three seconds." Claire’s voice was flat, nearly devoid of emotion, yet it pierced his ears more sharply than the distant thunder. "Gi