CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Zero parked the motorcycle in front of a deli about a quarter mile from the Third Street Garage and walked briskly to the building. He didn’t know if the plates had been identified during the brief chase from the cops and the Division and didn’t want to take any more chances than he had to.
He made the short hike with his head low and both hands stuck in his jacket pockets, his left wrapped around the Ruger LC9 and his injured hand out of sight. It was too easy of an identifying mark, yet he had no way to obscure it other than sticking it in a pocket. It pained him terribly, but he’d left the rest of the painkillers that Strickland had provided in the glove box of the car, which was still parked in Georgetown near the coffeehouse. There was no going back for it now.
