“You know damn good and well who it is,” barked Kimball at the distorted, disembodied voice crackling within the rusty speaker box outside of his cruiser. “Let me in.”
Kimball hated going to Mayor Wallace’s estate. Not only was it two miles south of town and only accessible by way of a severely potholed gravel road, but the unwarranted level of heightened security never failed to piss him off. The old man was getting more paranoid by the day.
The gates creaked open and Kimball pulled through. He eased down the long and winding driveway to the house, where he spotted Wallace in a second floor window, scowling down at him and clutching a drink in his gnarled, claw-like hand.
He stood at the door and waited–there was no need to knock. Wallace, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, opened it moments…
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