Branson walked out of the run-down brownstone building hoping the facade didn't come crumbling down on him. The building should have been condemned years ago, yet still stood as nothing more than a relic of what it once was. Most of this part of town was old, and judging by the interiors of some of the houses, appeared that electricity was an afterthought of their construct. He breathed a sigh of relief, but in no way let down his guard. He was uncomfortable, and that was putting lightly. He had made his pickup without incident yet felt as though he was still being closely watched; every eye from the dilapidated brownstone was seeking him out. If they wanted to, they could make sure he never made it to the other side of the street and no one would question what happened. Drug dealers and their heavily armed guards had more than one weapon aimed at him.