1,200 miles away, in the capital city of Lincoln, Nebraska, a black Ford Mustang sat parked on the side of the road just across the street from the Lincoln Police Department. Many cars whipped by along the busy, multi-laned road, but the man sitting in the driver’s seat remained undisturbed by traffic. He appeared to be in his thirties, wearing a black leather jacket and a pair of aviators over the cold and hardened expression of his face. In his hands, he was fiddling with a small Ridge wallet that contained only a handful of cards. He picked up a driver’s license sitting on the center console next to him, glancing briefly at the photo of himself and the name which read, “Shane Wilder,” before sticking it among the other cards in the wallet and slipping it into a zipped pocket in the right sleeve of his jacket. The last thing he reached for was a small manila envelope sitting on the passenger seat.Shane took a deep breath as he opened the door and exited the vehicle. He waited for a
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