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... self. His posture did that for him—arms folded like steel beams, eyes flint-hard, body set like an avalanche waiting to fall. Still, for the sake of courtesy or curiosity, I tilted my head and asked, "What do you mean by that?"

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

"I mean what I said. Masked Syndicate ain't welcome in this country."

That gave me pause.

I studied him, and for a brief moment, I forgot the toast in my hand. The room felt smaller. Not because of the mounta ...

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