“You have to drink it,” Oscar says. I almost stiffen. Don’t freeze up like a motherfucking shitbag. I try to kick my ass into gear, but a nagging voice growls, stay sober. Adding to the mess upstairs in my head, Eliot and Tom’s Epsilon bodyguards start spewing shit on comms. “Stop helping Thatcher.” “This shouldn’t be easy for him. He fucked the team.”
