Sweat beaded on Saul’s forehead. Being summoned to a meeting with the executives seldom meant good news. After thirty-seven years in the business, one would think he’d be used to it, but he’d never managed to shake the sense of impending doom he felt before every meeting. His fingers closed around the small cylindrical container in his pocket and resisted the urge. Xanax would dull the panic, but he needed to remain sharp when meeting with those piranhas.
* * *
Zorn reminded him of a bullfrog on Botox. His closed mouth, thin-lipped smile stretched impossibly wide across a face much too smooth for a man his size. He overflowed his chair like Jabba the Hutt crammed into an Armani suit. Saul half expected a long tongue to zip out of…
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