In a basement bar in the 10th arrondissement of Paris, the air was thick and stagnant, cloying with the stench of tobacco and sweat. Liam sat in the rearmost booth, a glass of untouched whiskey before him. He had been waiting here for forty minutes, and the man he awaited was known only as “The Pigeon.”
The intelligence had come from an old contact in Marco’s prison network, and the price was five thousand euros in cash. For Liam, as he was now, the sum was a fortune—but he had not hesitated for a single moment.
The door swung open, and a tall, gaunt man stepped inside. He was in his thirties, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, with thick, smudged lenses perched on his nose. He scanned the room, his gaze locking onto Liam before he made his way over.
“Lucas?” he asked, using Liam’s alias.
