The recorder sat on the glass table between them.
Small. Black. Unassuming.
Riley placed it there with deliberate care, as if setting down a weapon more dangerous than any gun.
"Speak clearly," he said calmly. "Say your names. Your positions. And everything you've done."
The red light blinked on.
The deputy commissioner stared at it like it was a guillotine.
Dexter Clint swallowed hard.
"No… no, you can't—" Dexter began, voice cracking. "This will ruin—"
Riley moved.
So fast neither of them saw it coming.
His hand slammed Dexter's face down onto the table with bone-jarring force. The glass rattled violently, the recorder nearly tipping over.
"You will talk," Riley said quietly, his voice low and terrifyingly even, "or you will beg to."
Dexter groaned, blood smearing across the glass.
The deputy commissioner flinched violently in his chair.
Riley leaned down until his mouth was inches from Dexter's ear.
