"Found restraints on a couple'a the bodies, and they had a windowless van set up for transport. So we're pretty sure they were lookin' t'kidnap you, not kill you." His drawl has gotten more pronounced even in the time they've been speaking. "I'll find out more for sure when I get a chance t'have a chat with them." And the inflection he gives that one word, chat, is heavy and dark. It's not going to be a pleasant conversation, clearly.

He listens to the sound of Damien moving around inside the room, the scrape of the couch across the floor, and makes himself bend to retrieve his damn jacket. At least the fabric's dark enough the blood doesn't show too vividly against it, unlike the thoroughly drenched sleeve of his dress shirt, though when he shrugs it laboriously back on the fabric bunches tight around the towel still wrapped over his biceps, and the hole where the bullet entered shows damp red fabric.

"Just me, bossman," he answers, and straightens himself up. Not to rigid attention, but to what can pass for a casual slouch, at least.