Chapter 676

Oliver pressed down the brim of his cap, the utilitarian 6th Street uniform straining against his frame. He glared at the two men standing close together a short distance away, then jabbed his elbow into the hip-hop-styled fat guy beside him, the one with the oversized gold chain.

“Jack,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “didn’t we pull this exact trick when we hid our identities back then?”

The fat man stroked his chain, speaking in an odd accent Oliver had never heard before, though his words were familiar: “The Vill Arsenal job? Old tricks always work.” He patted the fake beer gut he’d padded under his oversized hip-hop T-shirt. Beneath the fabric, the faint bulge of tense muscle was clear as day. “As long as it works, who cares? See? Nobody’s suspicious yet.”