"Induction? What, like it's a fucking club?" As the words bounced around the inside of the Mercedes, Lash tightened his hands on the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. He had a switchblade in the inside pocket of his Canali suit and the urge to out the blade and slice this human's throat open was goddamned tempting. Of course, then he'd have a dead body to deal with and blood all over the leather. Both of which were bores. He looked across the seats. The one he had picked out of a cast of hundreds was your typical bottom-feeding, drug-dealing, shifty-eyed motherfucker. The kid's history of child abuse was written in the old circular scar on his face--perfectly round and the size of the burning end of a cigarette--and his hard life on the street was in his smart, twitchy eyes. His greed was in the way he looked around the inside of the car, like he was trying to figure out how to make it his own, and his resourcefulness was obvious by how quickly he'd made a name for himself as a go-to dealer. "More than a club," Lash said in a low voice. "Much more. You've got a future in this business and I'm offering it to you on a silver platter. I'll have my men pick you up here tomorrow night." "What if I don't show?" "Your choice." Of course, then the fucker was going to wake