Reid's sharp vision immediately adjusts to the low light inside the roadhouse. He pays close attention to everything around him, senses wide open. The air tastes like greasy food and cigar tobacco, and someone nearby has day old body odor barely masked by deodorant. The air feels heavy and thick, humidity level high. Murmuring voices come from the far side of the bar and an old, beat up booth surrounded by 50's memorabilia. Through a haze of smoke, Reid sees his target seated casually at the table. He's not alone.
Lucy slides into the seat next to her boss on his right, not looking up or making a sound as one suited arm drops around her shoulders. Reid ignores her, unimpressed with Syracuse but refusing to underestimate the man or the pair of guards who flank his table, shoulders as broad
