We found Benny in his usual spot at the docks, perched on a stack of crates with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a flask in his hand. His wiry frame was silhouetted against the setting sun, his face shadowed beneath his ratty old ball cap. He looked up as we approached and killed our bikes, his eyes narrowing slightly before recognition kicked in.
“Talon Nash,” he drawled, “to what does this old man owe the pleasure?”
I dismounted my bike and walked over to him, Dex and Norris flanking me like shadows. “Benny,” I said, nodding. “We need to talk.”
He smirked, flicking his cigarette to the ground and lighting another one with practiced ease. “Don’t you always?” he replied, exhaling a plume of smoke. “What’s it this time? Another shipment gone missin’?”
I didn’t bother with small t
