The Black Market Put a Price on Me

"Explaining won't help," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "You have to stay alive long enough for people to listen." Then a low engine growl rolled in from outside. Not police. A convoy. Four black vans slid into the street, no logos, no plates visible through the tinted glass. When the last door opened, a man in a dark gray overcoat stepped out slowly, wearing a single earpiece and leaning on a metal cane like he was arriving at a gala, not a manhunt. "Noah Keller," he called across the street. "I'm Leon Varda. Think of me as the person through whom all the ugly business in Briar Harbor eventually passes." "So you're the black market boss?" Noah shouted back. "You sure know how to make an entrance."