John followed him to the independent office beside the warehouse.
It was set up like a fortress, not only with fully armed bodyguards but also with an automated turret at the entrance that could be activated.
Old Chris hastily took a bottle of opened wine from the desk, took a swig for himself, and then, as if he remembered something, filled a glass for the mercenary.
John didn't take the "imported" wine in front of him. He looked up and asked.
"You knew I was coming?"
"No, but I spotted you at first glance on stage, John, the big star, the ghost of the Palmer Road Race, taking out company executives and walking away unscathed, defeating the defending champion of the Central Arena, and even arm-wrestling both SAT and the internet regulator!"
Old Chris's chest heaved as saliva and wine sprayed from his mouth.
"Damn, that's f***ing badass! I'm looking for a master like you, brother. It doesn't matter what you're here for in my turf, name your price!"
