Stan smiled bleakly. "The packages are triggered, Piazza, I'm very much afraid if you tried to open it your head would be blown off. Satisfied?"
He turned back to the others. "We pay very well—very well, indeed. A smart man, who isn't too curious, will find it well worth his while. We'll give you the packages and tell you where to leave them. In some cases, it will involve extensive travel on your part. Be cautious, be careful, and be quick on the trigger in case anybody tries to take them away from you."
The man whom Stan had called Piazza stood up and started for the door. Stan watched him quietly until his hand was on the knob.
"What's the matter, Piazza?"
The man turned and spat on the carpet. "I don't like your proposition. I think it stinks. We take all the risks and we don't even know what we're doing!"
Stan shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Piazza. Really sorry. I had hoped we could use you."
Piazza whitened. "I'm no stoolie, Mr. Martin."
"We can't take the risk," Stan said simply.
In a movement that only one pair of eyes could follow, he reached inside his coat and shot through the cloth of the lapel.