March gets to his feet and the man in black looks on like the act of standing in itself is some Chris Angel type shit. Street magic. Like how’s he gonna say that and leave?

William’s still raking around for evidence of a wire -- Chilton or some government suit whispering at the other end -- surprise carved close to the bones of his face. It’s the kind of surprise that isn’t far off hostility, brittle tension broken off along exposed edges. Razor teeth on a bear trap that isn’t sure enough to spring shut yet.

“You a businessman or a fuckin’ fortune teller?” is the best he can manage under pressure, hot tin in his glare.

“We’re not finished yet.”