Bagman: Three Black Suits

“Good evening,” one man said. Older, his face was some artist’s masterpiece. Black hair, gray at the temples and features that had been inspired by a Greek statue. “I am Mr. Lancombe. These are my associates, Mr. Katsu Hachiro,” a stout oriental man with spectacles that I suspected were purely for show, “and Esmail.”

There was no mistaking the muscle. Esmail was a huge Iranian, broad everywhere a man could be, with as many muscle graft jobs as the clinics could fit. I bet his nervous system had more processing power than most corporate servers. I grinned at Esmail.

Hachiro stepped forward and said something in Japanese.

They waited.

“Don’t speak no fuckin’ Jap, man,” I informed them and spat on the nice black marble floor.

“Do you have what we want?” Lancombe translated.

“Yeah, sure I got it. Picked it up off those amateurs you hired before they got dead.”

Hachiro said something else and Esmail stepped forward. I backed off a step and raised my fists. The door slid closed behind me with a soft snick.

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