At exactly nine am, Nolan Foster and Gary Wilson walked into the ongoing construction site holding take-outs from a nearby restaurant. They had taken the subway. Chicken sandwich was for breakfast, courtesy of Jack Remington.
The wait had worn everyone out. They all wondered how far Sheriff Walsh will go with his crazy idea. Jack's slicked back hair was dishevelled now. His neatly pressed suit had rumples from sitting for long hours. He also had bags under his eyes. The man was tired. Grace and her team had given up, too. Everyone on these grounds craved for nothing else but their homes.
Nolan handed the last plastic bag over to his chief. The man's eyes looked weak, and the wrinkles on his face deepened. He had aged a lot in the past six hours.
He tried again. "Let's get Lars Taylor on the line. Place a curfew in the city. Lars will send a tactical team."
