Chapter - 300
The back of the armored Suburban was less a vehicle and more a mobile command center designed by someone who had watched too many spy movies and had an unlimited budget. The air inside was scrubbed, cool, and smelled of ozone, gun oil, and expensive leather—a stark, jarring contrast to Rick and Sharon, who smelled like a wet dog had rolled in a slaughterhouse and then died in a septic tank.
Sharon sat on a plush leather bench, shivering, clutching her plastic shower curtain toga around her like it was a royal robe. She was staring at "Johnson," the man in the three-piece suit who had just offered them the world on a silver platter, with a look that suggested she was considering shooting him just to make the headache stop.
