Joe Reynolds stands on a corner at midnight.

Marietta and Parker. Starless sky. Empty warehouses with vacant eyes. A cigarette trembling in his hand. This is not his world. His world is daylight and hard labor. Coming home to cornbread and children's laughter.

But Sal Marcone's words echo louder than his conscience.

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

He told Eleanor he was working late. The lie felt like a stone in his mouth. She looked at him with knowing sadness but didn't challenge him. Just packed him chicken and biscuits — a silent act of love that made his deception even more wretched.

Now he's a lookout. Just a man having a smoke. That's what Sal said.

But when the truck appears, when the black car blocks its path, when two figures move with swift menace and the driver surre ...