““Trigger the vest? You’re probably right,” Harry responded with a shrug. “Which is why I took the precaution of leaving the detonator in the hands of a ‘friend.’ And unluckily for you, about the only person he hates more than you—is me. He’s not going to think twice.” He reached up to adjust his earpiece, his eyes never leaving Hale’s. “You there, Flaharty?” The man took a step back at the mention of the name, the Walther’s barrel wavering for the first time. “On my mark, Stephen,” Harry continued, his voice calm, almost conversational, “I’m going to count down from ten. When I reach one, you trigger the vest. If I’m cut off at any point. . .you trigger the vest. Ten. . .””
