The security posted at the gate of Ronan’s place resembles the idea I have of a Russian soldier recycled in the private sector: a real big lug, worse than the gorillas who follow my boss every day like his shadow. Very short blond hair and a machine gun bought on the black market against his chest and who looks as happy as a wall riddled with bullets. A real walking cliché. He recognizes my car as well as my face, he nods to signal to the one who operates the gate controls that he can let me pass. I park my Pontiac in the underground car park housing Ronan’s four-wheeled toys. In my eyes, it’s a real waste that a guy like him has this impressive collection of cars. I leave my jacket in the passenger seat.
There, near the elevator, I’m entitled to yet another Mr. Ex-Military. As soon as he
