It was the perfect dead drop for money and drugs–deep in the cemetery where the ground had gotten rough and no one would notice turned-over earth. Cunningham looked for the marker, which Debs had chosen as much for the unusual name as the remote location.

“Here lies Nikolai Ilyich Tyicov, beloved son, 1951-1980,” he read. The tombstone bore the crazy three-beamed Orthodox cross, probably the only one in the cemetery. No chance of screwing it up if they had to send some snot-nosed junkie over as a patsy.

It didn’t take long to turn the earth over to reveal the latest shipment laid out on the lid of the coffin: bundles of drugs and money in plastic baggies. Cunningham bent down to scoop them up.

A pale, bony hand punched out of the lid and seized his lapel as he did so.