The salt-heavy breeze coming off the Haven River acted as a cold, bracing tonic against the lingering heat of the c*****e they had left behind at the club. Marcus Sterling walked several paces behind Conrad Stone, his gait uneven and staggered. His expensive, bespoke Italian loafers—shoes that cost more than a common worker’s annual salary—clicked rhythmically against the damp, oil-stained pavement of the Haven Port Authority pier. To Marcus, each click sounded like the ticking of a countdown clock, or perhaps the c*****g of a hammer on a revolver held to his head.
He kept glancing over his shoulder. In the shifting fog and the flickering orange glow of the industrial sodium lamps, every shadow cast by the towering shipping containers looked like a silent executioner. In his mind’s eye, h
