I spent the next two hours in the Wynn penthouse, hooked up to a portable IV drip Ethan had smuggled up from the safehouse. The activated charcoal had neutralized the poison, but my body was still flushing the remnants from my muscles. Everything ached. My hands trembled when I held them up. The exhaustion was bone-deep, the kind that made your teeth hurt and your vision swim at the edges.
I sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a black tactical t-shirt and dark trousers. The Julian Croft persona was packed away in the closet. The bespoke suits, the diamond cufflinks, the affected billionaire drawl — all of it hidden behind heavy mahogany doors. Right now, I was just Noah Reed. Tired. Poisoned. Angry.
