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Two men grabbed Zeke from behind and lifted him off the ground. He didn't fight—wasn't being robbed. He knew who these guys were. Heavy cologne, black suits, not FBI. Their dress shoes clicked on pavement as they walked him around the corner into the alley. At least they had good taste in footwear.
It was dark, but the man standing there waiting was unmistakable. Jet black suit silhouetted in the dim light of the alley. The orange glow of his cigarette burning as he pulled and then tossed it on the ground.
"You've been avoiding me, Mr. Cross." He stepped to the left.
Razor. The cologne gave him away before Zeke even saw his face—something expensive trying too hard. Slicked-back hair, white handkerchief in his suit pocket. The guy dressed like he'd studied Goodfellas frame by frame.
"Razor, buddy, you know how much I enjoy our visits."
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