Sunday night. The old abandoned rail yard on the edge of town. The air was thick with the smell of diesel and damp earth.
Marcus arrived in his SUV, bringing three large men with him. They expected a terrified old man with a handful of cash. Instead, they found Agrippa standing in the center of the tracks, wearing his heavy steel-toed work boots and a taped-up set of hands.
"Where's the money, Fisher?" Marcus barked, stepping out of the car.
"There is no money," Agrippa said, his voice dropping to that deadened, terrifying monotone. "There is only this."