Free The Cut by Wil Mara Page A

Daimon chose to park on the side that provided the best cover. Maybe they’ll think I’m the landscaper, he mused.
    He parked, popped the trunk latch, and got out. The air was warm and heavy, and hundreds of summer insects were trilling and chirping in the empty fields beyond.
    He caught sight of Chadwick Hall in the distance. The lights were on in the ground floor. People were in there waiting for him, he realized. They were waiting for many people, but he was one of them. He retrieved his black duffel bag, which contained the personal items the team had advised him to bring. Anything else he needed, they said, could be purchased at any one of a number of stores nearby. There was a Target, a Wal-Mart, and, ironically, a ShopRite.
    He slung the bag over his shoulder and closed the trunk. Then he turned to see where Brodie was. He had apparently disappeared, returning to the shadows to wait for legitimate prey.
    Surging with anticipation and more grand visions of the future, Daimon Foster started forward.

7
    After parking in one of the spots that Daimon Foster passed up, Corey Reese took his bag from the back of his Ford Expedition and cut across the lawn to Chadwick Hall. Through two pairs of glass doors, he entered a poorly lit lobby that looked as though it hadn’t received a cosmetic upgrade since the seventies. On the right was a long folding table, and behind it sat two men dressed in the same outfit that Brodie wore—Giants shirt, khaki shorts, white socks and sneakers. Several neat rows of manila folders lay on the table, each with a plain white label bearing a player’s name.
    â€œHi, I’m Corey Reese,” he said to the two men.
    They did not reply immediately, but instead looked him up and down.
    â€œOkay,” one of them said finally. Then nothing again.
    â€œI’m here for camp, and I was told to report to Donald Blumenthal.”
    The first one glanced at the second, and the second one got up slowly, as if he would rather be anywhere else right now. He was awkward and gangly, and he had an irritable, unkindly air to him that Reese sensed and didn’t like. His face was unshaven and reddened by scores of burst blood vessels.
    â€œWhat’s the name again?”
    â€œReese, Corey Reese.”
    Blumenthal found the folder and came around to the other side of the table.
    â€œI’m Blumenthal. Follow me,” he said and headed down the hallway. As Reese passed by the first guy, he saw that he had a magazine in his lap.
    They went past a long bulletin board decorated with a variety of leaflets and flyers—everything from school announcements to offers for tutoring, carpools, and guitar lessons—and turned left at the end. This brought them to a set of elevator doors. Corey’s congenial host pushed the little button for the eighteenth floor and waited, devoting the time to cleaning out one nostril with his thumb.
    â€œHow’d the minicamps go?” Reese asked in an attempt to be friendly. It was always a good idea in this business to build alliances wherever you could.
    â€œOh, they were great,” Blumenthal replied dryly, watching the numbers over the doors light up one at a time as the elevator progressed downward.
    â€œHave you been with the team a long time?”
    â€œYeah.”
    He decided not to socialize further with this gifted diplomat, political potential notwithstanding. He stepped into the car when it arrived and followed Blumenthal out when it stopped again. Two more hallways, then they arrived at an unvarnished wooden door with the number 33 drawn at eye level in bold Magic Marker. Blumenthal twisted the knob, pushed the door back, and reached inside to flick the switch. He didn’t actually enter the room, as if he might catch some kind of infection if he did.
    â€œHere it is,” he said, “home sweet home.”
    Corey stepped in and immediately caught the odor of mold. Not overpowering, but unmistakable. It