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HE GRIPPED the steering wheel loosely as the car, its lights out, drifted slowly to a stop.
THE SOMBER GROUP OF MEN SAT IN A LARGE ROOM that rested far belowground, accessed by only a single, high-speed elevator.
THE MAN IN THE RAIN SLICKER WALKED slightly bent over, his breathing labored and his body sweaty.
The motorcade streamed into the tree-shaded parking lot, where it disgorged numerous people who looked hot, tired and genuinely unhappy.
At this prison the doors are inches thick, steel; once factory smooth, they now carry multiple dents.
Web London held a semiautomatic SR75 rifle custom built for him by a legendary gunsmith.