Meteora Bar, Planet Malta

[TFinnegan]

Tim draws his thumb and forefinger in a circle, down the sides of his mustache, coming together again at his braided chin.
This Junker signal for careful speech is picked up by 'Gunner' Kelley at the bar, whose eyes flick about, then nods.
Assured no one nearby is listening, and that Kelley's bug detector reads clean, he leans in on his elbows to speak to Death Runner, his face grim and serious.

"Ye'z knoo damn well wha' 'tis Oi've go', boyo."
His eyes flash cold steel.

"An' ef ye'z cannae be bothered t' share a drink like a man wif a Scotsman Junker bearin' gifts, hoo can Oi be sure ye'z dinnae lure me 'ere t' pen me own bloody confession?
A wry smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his eyes glint.
Ye be nae plottin' t' 'ang ol' Tim from a tree fer treason in some ruttin' orange field, aye?"

"But fer auld toime's sake, an' love o' Malta, Oi'll lend ye'z some trust.
But make nae mistake. Me trust, 'tis a loan lad, an' one tha's t' be payed off in koind"

Tim produces a tiny locator pad and slides it across the table, his finger still firmly upon it.
His voice drops extremely low, and his eyes bore straight into the face of Death Runner.

"Ye'll find 'yon Nomad corpse aboot sixty some-odd klicks below th' plane o' eliptical, in a stasis crate, near th' beta 'ole.
She be intact, fer th' most, an' th' lads wha' tractored 'er in tells me she were aye twitchin' when she went in.
Deed, but just barely.
Where she come from an' how Oi come t' 'ave 'er, be nae yer business - dinnae even arsk."
Just know, 'twere nae me nor moine wha' done 'er in. Me 'ands be aye clean onn'is one.
Oi be merely a cargo 'auler..."

Tim Finnegan flashes a toothy, feral smile at the man.

"...a well paid cargo 'auler, aye?"

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