Micah took the seat next to her, greeted only by the clipped nod of her head. “Clara,” he said dryly as the old woman took a long dreg of the amber-colored liquid in her glass.
“You have them?”
“Booker tell you how many you’re carrying this time?”
“Five. Best picks of the EP crop.”
Dark brown eyes narrowed, showcasing the lines of the old woman’s face. “Military-grade then?”
Micah nodded again.
That seemed to please her. The harsh set of her brow lessened a bit as she laid a stained brown pouch on the bar and nudged it toward Micah. “Payment due at time of service. Tell Booker I know where to find him if these don’t perform as promised.”
“And he knows where to find you if they aren’t paid in full.” Micah pocketed the pouch, noting the jingling of metal on metal as he stashed it away inside his worn leather jacket. The requested pieces would all be there; Clara Love was always good for it.
Gingerly, he slipped the heavy black pack from his shoulder and handed it over. Clara met his outstretched arm with one of her own, surprisingly strong for a woman of her age. Without a further word, she turned to go, then paused, turning back to him with a smirk on her face.
“Oh, and Micah?”
He raised a brow, arms crossed over his chest.
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