For The Thrill of it. A Michael Stone adventure.

Previously

…He crossed the warehouse floor in a low, silent crouch, reaching the bolted door in seconds. He pulled the bolt, eased the door open, and slipped inside. The room was small, windowless, lit only by a crack of light from the warehouse. Rita lay on a mattress in the corner, her wrists bound, her hair tangled across her face. She looked up at him, eyes wide, and opened her mouth to speak. The door behind him slammed open. Michael spun. The scarred man stood in the doorway, a pistol leveled at his chest. Behind him, the sergeant's bulk filled the frame, that cold smile spreading again. "Well, well," the sergeant said. "You just don't know when to quit, do you, Mr. Stone?"