Fugitive John Paul Jones wasn't a man for half-measures. He had given the message to the quartermaster, to let Johann the Faust know that he was there , but as soon as the man turned his back, Martin slipped away and hid among the containers of equipment and commodities. There were too many possibilities in the bar. People with all kinds of backgrounds provided too much camouflage for would-be assassins and already-are spies.
Clutching his sidearm and constantly checking his surroundings, he waited for the one he crossed in the Sigmas. The one who wanted to talk. They'd be here any minute, right?
I'll do something about my superiority complex when I cease to be superior.
"Whatever happened to catchin' a good old-fashioned passionate ass-whoopin and gettin' your shoes, coat, and your hat tooken?"
