Kearns noticed the man in the tan overcoat as he turned the corner. The same man from the dinner.
It had been a little more than a month since his escape from a bloody double cross, and he berated himself for getting too comfortable. For thinking they’d given up. He’d stashed the stones. Thought about tossing them in every river he crossed. But he hadn’t. Throwing away that kind of money was stupid.
Kearns hailed a cab. He gave the driver an address, and slid down in the seat. The man in the tan overcoat leaned against a wall, smoking.
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.