They won't hurt me, she'd said, and he almost slipped out with a desperate How can you be sure? But they're walking over. They're walking over right fucking now and Cal is hard-pressed not to leap out of his chair and bolt right out of the bar, because he figures if Demi isn't seen chumming around with a Resources agent, maybe they won't bother with her. Maybe their gaze will slip right off the darkhaired woman by his side, their focus fading in favour of their usual rabbiting quarry.
A fine way to celebrate being released from La Quinta: getting shot by the raiders he spends every professional shift avoiding.
As they approach, Cal's instinctively risen to his feet to minimise the height disparity as much as possible, but he still needs to look up and up to meet the Russian's eye. And then he's speaking, and—it doesn't make sense. Why her? What could they possibly want with Demi?
Cal stares back, his face set into hard lines and an impassive look. His paranoia is thick and hot, even as he knows that he's jumping to conclusions, immediately calculating the worst possible outcome of this situation. Would they hurt her just for being seen with him? Use her as leverage? (But meanwhile, the gears turn, and an idea is starting to press through the panicked haze, and he doesn't like it. He'd buried any inkling of it over the past month. Couldn't even contemplate it as an option.)
"Sure," he says, trying to sound light, but the voice comes out hard, practically grinding through his teeth. "But whatever you've got to say, you can say it right here."