It was a long walk to the abandoned warehouse. Tom strode next to Aine like a thunder cloud, his glittering eyes mere slits that said he was going to grab that metal box and run for it at his first chance. Aine held the unlikely prize in one hand, and his dagger in the other. He wished he had a more substantial weapon, but larger weapons drew unwanted attention in a city.
The guards came into view, standing together in a slice of streetlight. They looked like dark statues against the backdrop of the rusty, corrugated warehouse, a barely disguised mask of irritation on Roger's face.
"I got him," Aine announced, just for something to say. "I would have called but my phone got coffee spilled on it."
"Coffee?" Roger demanded. "Or did you just want all the credit?"
"Roger!" James cried. "You can't talk to Executioners like that."