The bar in Barcelona smelled like cigarettes and stale beer. Santino pushed through the crowd as bodies pressed against him. Music pounded from speakers that had seen better days.
"You're late," said a voice behind him.
Santino turned as a man with graying hair leaned against the wall. His eyes were cold. His jacket bulged where a gun sat beneath it. "Traffic," Santino said.
The man laughed. "Traffic. Right." he said as he pushed himself off the wall. "Come on. They're waiting."
They walked through a door marked 'Private.' Down a narrow hallway. Past rooms where men counted money and weighed packages. The smell changed from beer to something that smelled like chemicals.
"Here." The man knocked on a door three times. He paused. Then Knocked twice more.
The door opened. Inside sat fiv
