"Gentlemen, am I not welcome here?"
A Wakizashi slapped down onto the bar, and Deathstroke removed his mask.
Slicking his soaking wet, gray-black hair streaked with white back over his head, the man turned sideways.
He smiled, exposing the wrinkles carved by the years to Floyd.
He looked to be in his fifties, a little older than Floyd had imagined.
"You're not going to make a move in the Black Forest, are you?"
Deathstroke did not answer. He ordered a dark beer.
"It's been years since I sat down here. This familiar seat easily reminds me of Edmund, and the days I spent drinking with him.
"Mm! Authentic Paulaner dark beer. I suggest everyone give it a taste."
Without giving Floyd a chance to refuse, Slade ordered him a glass.
"What exactly do you want?"
"Relax, Floyd. I'll settle our score sooner or later, but not now." Deathstroke placed the bloodstained bullet on the bar.
"Mercenaries never reveal their real names, so you shouldn't have stuffed a sketchbook into your weapons bag, much less signed your name beneath every sketch.
"Floyd Lawton Jr. A fine name. Through it, I found your address, and a flyer in your wastebasket."
Every word from Slade was like a bullet fired into Floyd's heart.
"So..."
"So in a little while, I'll walk out of this bar, find them, and kill them one by one. You too, of course, but I like saving the best for last, so you'll be the last one."
"No, that wasn't what I wanted to ask... Hss!" With no anesthetic, the barmaid's stitching hurt so much that Floyd bared his teeth.
"I wanted to ask what you thought of my drawings. I mean, that sketchbook."
"Honestly? They were awful."
"Fuck!"
Slade laughed at Floyd's dejected expression. He suddenly realized that