The two men that Rink had beaten up were conspicuous by their absence. Probably down at the local ER, I assumed. Only the third man, the first to feel a clubbing right from Rink, was there, and he looked no easier than Wetherby did about us showing up again. His hand crept toward a gun in a holster on his hip. Rink gave him a slow shake of his head and the man’s fingers drifted from his gun and dug awkwardly in his trouser pocket.

“Can we have a little privacy?” My question was more to spare the young mercenary any further discomfort, and offered him a way out without his losing any more face.

“You okay with that, sir?”

Wetherby scowled at the young man, then waved him out of the room. When the man was gone, Wetherby grunted. “Not as if he was going to be much help anyway.”

“Like I said, we’re not here for trouble this time.”

Wetherby slumped in the chair behind his desk. I noticed that his papers and laser printer had been returned to their rightful place, but it didn’t look like much work had been done since our last visit.

“What are you here for, Hunter?”

Propping myself on the corner of his desk, I folded my arms over my chest and looked down at him from a position of dominance. “I want your help.”

There was nothing of a request in my voice. Wetherby could refuse my order, but I didn’t think he would.

“I told you that none of the people on my books were involved. What more do you want from me?”

“Tell me about Luke Rickard.”

A strobe of emotions flickered across Wetherby’s face. The one that took root was fear. He looked down at his desk, focusing on the untidy pile of documents.

“Don’t deny that you know him,” I said. “You’d be wasting all our time.”

“I don’t know him.” His voice was barely above a whisper. He looked up at me and then across the room to where Rink lounged against a wall. “But I know of him.”

“You tried to recruit him?”

“I don’t approach people. They come to me.”