The door to the warehouse was supposed to be locked. That was the point. Jack Malone did not knock on unlocked doors.
He stood in the rain outside a third-floor walkup in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, and stared at the steel door like it was a math problem he had already solved. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He ignored it. The text was from Detective Santos, probably asking if he had made contact yet. He would text back in an hour with something vague. That was his style. Jack had been a trader on Wall Street...
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