He hadn't been idle since returning. He'd been busy—renting warehouse space, reestablishing contact with the Razor Gang. But this time, it wasn't John he met with. It was Tommy, the head of the gang himself—a hard-looking Brit in his forties. The meeting spot? Still the same old pub.
"I heard from John this deal's not the same as last time?"
"That's right," Pierre said bluntly. "The quantity is a lot larger. I'm not sure your people can handle it."
Tommy gave a confident snort.
"No matter how much you've got, I can handle it. What do you need—cars, tires, or… U.S. dollars?"
Tommy's confidence came from one source: American dollars.
His brothels were the Razor Gang's most profitable business. And ever since the U.S. bomber crews had been stationed nearby, he had opened brothels right next to their bases.
American soldiers were big spenders—and they paid in dollars.
Over the past few years, Tommy had raked in a mountain of U.S. currency.
