The two men pulled over next to the little diner, the blue neon dancing over the hood of their car.

The taller man looked up at the sign. Patriots. 

“Our contact has a sense of humour,” he muttered as they went inside, carrying black briefcases.

The contact was waiting for them: a small, nervous-looking man with glasses and a twitchy mustache. They ordered food and then the contact exchanged his case for theirs. The shorter man looked through it and nodded. The papers were there.

The taller man smiled. “Pleasure doing business with you, comrade.”

Word Count: 95

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Roger Bultot for providing the prompt photo!

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