The Last Bullet of the Rust Belt
The job came through a contact at a truck stop off I-70. His name was Dale. He ran a diner in a town called Iron Creek that didn't appear on most maps. The population was three thousand if you counted the ghosts. He met me in the parking lot behind the diner. A Ford pickup, flat left rear tire, exhaust pipe hanging by a thread. He didn't introduce himself. Just handed me an envelope and said,...
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