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Going In

Tommaso

I climbed out of my black sedan and double-checked the address Tony had sent me on my phone. The grungy cement rectangle squatted on a garbage-filled plot of land just to the north of the city. I grimaced and dialed Lyle. If Tony was even worth the relatively little amount of credit we gave him, he’d check me for wires, but if I left a call open, Lyle would know when to move.

“Ready?” he said as he picked up the call.

“Ready.” I slipped my phone into my back pocket without hanging up and knocked on the door in the pattern Tony gave me with the address.

The metal door creaked open.

“Hey, Tommaso!” Tony grinned at me.

I forced myself to smile back. He’d given up the faint concession to professionalism—a button-down shirt I always saw him in at my warehouses—for a thin, grimy wifebeater. At least he didn’t ask to shake my hand. I started to step in.

“Ah!” Tony held up a metal detector wand. “Mind?”

“Since you’ve been so gracious.” I held up my arms and let him run the wand over m
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