The sum total of what Richard knew about SWAT teams could be summed up in a short montage of men in black kicking down doors, followed by the heroes of a selection of procedural cop dramas. His knowledge of Army Rangers was just about as extensive, but included a vague image of a gigantic pissing contest with the Rangers on one side of a moat and the Navy SEALS on the other. Winner take all, and by all they meant the bloody remains of whatever was left. Which was a metaphor that he should really figure out before he used it in conversation.
So, basically Samuel was really good at hurting things. Twice. That was... kind of bad-ass, actually. And it explained the gun in a way that didn't involve trench coats, post offices, or PTSD, which was reassuring. Not exactly enough to put him at ease, but still reassuring.
Still, he looked up at the ceiling. "Is crawling out an option?" he asked, only half joking. "And don't worry, I'm not an actor. I'm worse. I did some work in radio back in the day, but mostly I'm a PR guy. Just got a job doing in-house with Pacific Life." Richard paused, took a bite out of a cookie, and waited to see Samuel's response. Occasionally he would meet someone who was almost offended at the idea of PR, or someone who had no idea what it was. Either way, he had learned long ago not to offer information about his job unless people asked for it.