Chapter 22 Running From The Enemy

• The morning sun painted Damian Lancaster’s penthouse in warm gold, but nothing about the day felt warm to him. The filtered light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling blinds like prison bars, casting long shadows that reached toward him.
• He sat on the edge of the bed, bare chest heaving with a breath that wouldn’t settle. His fingers moved slowly, threading the laces of his Italian leather shoes, but his mind wasn’t on the task. Every muscle in his body was tight, coiled like a wire stretched to the brink.
• Something wasn’t right.