Nate kept his face smooth and easy as the men fell into the practiced, ritual chatter rich men used to lubricate evenings — light jibes about cigars, the price of sport horses, the weather over the western docks. He offered a hand and said, “Dr. Nathaniel Atkins.” The words felt foreign in his mouth — his cover — and he wore them like a clean, fitted glove.
Cisco took his hand with a loose, almost bored grip. He was all composed confidence: dark hair combed back, a tan that spoke of private estates and long summers abroad, a jaw that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. He gave Nate a half-smile and a terse, “Pleasure.” Nate noted the absence of warmth and tucked that away. This was a man who measured everybody.
Thomas and Gregory clustered with the rest, good-natured gruffness a
