The car slowed, tires crunching over gravel as Angel steered into a half-lit alley wedged between two collapsed warehouses. Neon signs buzzed overhead, one flickering ROOMS BY THE HOUR in broken pink strokes. The place stank of oil, rust, and wet concrete.
Xavier looked out the tinted window, unimpressed. "Charming neighborhood. What is this, Angel? You finally selling me off for parts?"
Angel cut the engine, smirking. "Tempting, but no. I've got a pickup. Some gear I ordered from a black channel contact. Couldn't exactly have it delivered to the club front desk since I am not as rich as you. And the remaining payment of the stuff you had ordered from the village."
Xavier's gaze sharpened. "Gear? As in guns and toys, or gear as in shit that'll land us on a government watchlist?"
