Jack wasn’t bothered. He just wasn’t. He’d been playing the game a long time. The fact he was the only remaining member of the Royal Flush gang had taught him a thing or two about himself. Mainly that he was awesome. He’d robbed and fought and killed with the best of them. And now he was here: kicking back in jeans and T-shirt, looking like James Dean in his leather jacket, smoking a cigarette, inside an unlit armoury aboard an empty Watchtower. He was living the dream. Heroes were gone and he’d found himself in the favour of one of the most dangerously inspired geniuses on the planet. Even the itching of the synthetic eye behind his patch couldn’t get him down. Yes, it was a good day to be Jack.
Albert Desmond was not sharing in the feelings of relaxation...Read More