“I’ll tell you the code for the safe, mister,” Brock said. “You take what’s there, and I swear I won’t say a damn thing before the next port.”
“I’m not here for the safe, Brock,” the man said.
Brock knew he didn’t completely cover his shock at that, but he had to try. “You’ve got the wrong man, mister. My name’s Tommy Herr. I’m just a car salesman on vacation.”
“Your name is Alex Brock,” the shadow said. “You’re a hit man. Unless something has changed in the last five years, you work primarily for a syndicate out of Miami, with occasional freelance gigs. And you’ve never learned that using the names of old St. Louis Cardinals is a really stupid way to choose an alias.”
Brock’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”
“Come on, kid.” The amusement in the voice was obvious. “Who would kno
