As soon as he could, Sean slipped away and left the house. After three tries, his car finally started. Banging on the dashboard, he swore the second thing he would do when he came to power was to get a nice, new car. Forty minutes later he entered the Shoreline Diner, a small, dingy restaurant near the docks. It was this unimposing locale that the Russians had chosen for their temporary headquarters.
Tarnished brass bells announced his arrival as Sean opened the door, and the smell of years of greasy hamburgers and onions assaulted his nose. Looking around, he sought out the man he’d been dealing with, Vadim Sokolov. The tall, slender Russian was seated at a booth in the back of the diner with two of his more broad-shouldered compatriots.
Despite how friendly the Russians always were, so
