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Michael Mccarter's Short Story

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A loud banging jarred Tom back to wakefulness. He jerked upright, his mind only semiconscious, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he struggled to orient himself in the darkness. Once he realized he was in his apartment and that the loud noise was someone knocking on his door, relief expelled a rush of air from between his lips. But his comfort was short lived, and visions of Michael McCarter’s mocking expression had him searching for his gun before he remembered he’d surrendered it to Penhall the day after his talk with Fuller. Getting to his feet, he winced as his bare foot made contact with the razor blade embedded in the carpet. Fortunately, it was the blunt end pressing into his skin, and reaching down, he picked it up off the floor
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