“You got the wrong address, kid. We didn’t call an exterminator.”
In the crimson nightclub, a haze of gritty cigarette smoke drifted into Cyrus’s face as he stared up at a muscled bartender. The guy was straight out of a seventies porno—cigarette hanging from his mouth, bushy hair on his arms, and a brown velour shirt. Cyrus was convinced someone had invented a time machine and stolen him from 1977.
Cyrus became intently aware of the steel sprayer strapped to his back. The forty-pound canister threatened to damn near drag him to the floor. Another reminder of his mission.
“I lugged this equipment all the way over here,” Cyrus said, patting the sprayer. “My boss is gonna kill me if I don’t use it.”
The bartender folded his arms. His giant biceps flexed under his shirt as he scissored hi
