J looked Agent Dean up and down. “Your chances of getting into that club are about nil. You’ve got
written all over you.”
“I’m not a cop,” Agent Dean said, affronted. “I’m an
John smirked. “Math nerd with a gun and a badge.” Not that he was one to speak, having gotten his masters in combinatorial design theory.
Agent McAllister smirked. John suspected she’d read his file. She seemed the type.
Agent Dean looked outraged for about half a second, but then Agent McAllister cleared her throat.
“You two are forgetting something,” she said.
“What?” John asked. “Obviously I’m the one going in. I don’t look like a cop.
” Or at least he looked un-cop-like enough to get in on some serious poker games around town (and, okay, almost lose his ass, but whatever).
“You do look like a cop,” Agent McAllister said. “You just don’t look like a federal agent.”
Agent Dean smoothed a hand down his button-down shirt. It was exactly the color shirt that John’s ex-wife said made his eyes look very green. “I look nice enough for a club, don’t I?”
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