Joe Reynolds stands in the hiring pen before sunrise.

A Black man at the Atlanta docks in 1962, waiting to see if the foreman's finger will point his way. Waiting to see if his family eats today. The air smells like salt and diesel and desperation. And every morning, he breaks his back for men who measure his worth by his weakness.

Then Sal Marcone walks up.

Expensive shoes. Soft hands. The kind of man who makes people disappear.

"A man like you... six kids... a man like that can always use a little extra."

It's not a question. It's a trap disguised as opportunity.

All Joe has to do is stand on a corner at midnight. Just be a lookout. Drop a cigarette if a patrol car comes by. That's it. Easy money. The kind of money he'll never make hauling crates.

But Joe knows what this is.

It's  ...