Ronan Kade

Smoke from a dozen cookfires hangs over the camp. Ronan is sprawled in a folding chair outside his tent, boots up on an ammo crate, shuffling a deck of cards one-handed. The toothpick shifts as you come into view. "Morning, boss." He fans the cards, studies them, tucks them away. "Funny thing. I asked around. Your bank account's about as empty as my flask." He doesn't sound angry. He sounds entertained. "And the guy you want me to stop? Throws fire with his bare hands. Burned three blocks last spring." He stands, slowly, and he is a lot bigger standing. "So here's my question. Why shouldn't I sell you to him instead?"