Harold locked his office door with shaking hands. His shirt was soaked with sweat around the collar. The half eaten pastrami sandwich sat cold on his desk next to the photocopies Maxwell Sterling had left behind, still untouched from the moment he put it down.
He picked up his personal desk phone once again. His fingers shook so badly he had to punch the private number twice to put it right. It was an unlisted line he only used for emergencies.
The phone rang twice before a rough voice picked up on the other end.
"Yeah," it was Don Cerino who answered.
"Don Cerino, it's Harold," he said. His voice was cracked, and breathless from the fear of the reaction he was about to get.
"Harold," Cerino said, his tone flat. "Tell me those warehouses in Long Island City are shut down tight." he continued wanting to hear good news.
"I can't do that, Don Cerino," Harold whispered, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. "The stop orders are gone. I had to cancel them."
