‘ this is SO FUCKED. ‘ ( truth. ) ‘ i don’t even know these guys. ‘ ( lie. ) ‘ i don’t know what you’re looking for. ‘ ( half-lie? )
the guns? maybe. probably not. she was just here to make a pickup, a ROUTINE run, an easy money deal with fairly low-level guys. they’ve been good clients of hers for years, polish jews with laundering services across the eastern bloc, who had decent connections with london and paris traffickers. it’s just metal. all she bought was the metal. NOT THIS SHIT.
the barrel burns and she knows they’ll be a mark, maybe a scar.
‘ listen. there’s cash. on the table. a hundred grand. it’s yours, man, it’s yours. ‘
mob money isn’t any good to him. tracing bills can be easy if you slip a few into the right pockets. “ don’t lie. “ john warns, pulling the hot barrel away from her fair skin. but he keeps his finger trained on the trigger, no longer intending to kill her, but certainly planning to terrify her further until she speaks. “ i don’t need the money. “ he says. “ do better.”
