Gampo was late.
For the tenth time, Everett scanned the dimly lit pub as he fingered the handle of his mug. It was early in the afternoon; too early for the place to be noisy with men half in their cups, but late enough for several patrons to mill about, enabling him to blend in with the back wall.
Two men, about his height, but probably forty pounds fleshier, trailed by a short, thick tar, snaked their way past the bar and headed in his direction, the one in front obviously the leader. The planes of his muscular shoulders and commanding jaw had the other customers allowing him ample berth. He and his men pulled out chairs and sat at the table next to him.
A tavern wench sauntered up and gave the men a slow, sultry smile, her eyes moving from each with a half-lidded gaze. “What’ll ye be
