Rambo squirmed. “You’re not shaving me. You’re not coming near me with that razor.” Then Galt was there handing it to Teasle, and Rambo watched the long blade flash in the lights, and remembered the enemy officer slicing his chest, and that was the end. He broke, grabbing the razor and standing, pushing them away. He fought the impulse to attack. Not here. Not in the goddamned police station. All he wanted was the razor away from them. But Galt was white-faced, eyes on the razor, and he was fumbling for his gun. “No, Galt!” Teasle shouted. “No guns!”
