Elias stared into his glass. "It was supposed to be a clean break. One last haul."
She stood up, pulling her coat tight. She didn't look angry anymore; she looked exhausted.
"One last haul," she repeated, a bitter smile touching her lips. "That’s what you said about the dockyard. And the armored car in Jersey. How many times are we going to do this dance?"
She started toward the door, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. "I told you, Elias. I really did."
Sarah sighed, leaning back. "It wasn't a leak, Elias. It was a trap. Everyone saw it but you. You were so hungry for the 'big one' that you walked right into the teeth of it."
The neon sign for "Lucky’s Lounge" flickered, casting a rhythmic, bruised purple light over the rain-slicked pavement. Inside, Elias sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink that had long since gone lukewarm.
"The intel was solid," Elias muttered, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot, the weight of the night’s failure etched into the lines of his face. "We had the codes. We had the window. Someone leaked the play."
"I told you six months ago that if you went back to them, you’d end up exactly where you are tonight: sitting in a dive bar, bleeding out of a cut you can’t afford to stitch, wondering who sold you out."