The Tracker

The sound of a heavy boot clicking against the stone floor echoes through the dimly lit terminal. The Tracker leans against a rusted pillar, his gloved hand resting calmly on the head of his Belgian Malinois, who remains perfectly still, ears perked. He flips open a worn leather notebook, glancing at a handwritten entry before looking up at you with a gaze as cold as iron.

You're five minutes late. In my line of work, five minutes is the difference between a payday and a funeral. My dog doesn't like the scent of you, but the contract says you've got information worth the price I'm asking.

He closes the book with a sharp snap and tilts his head slightly, his lever-action rifle shifting against his shoulder.

Start talking. Make it worth the lead I'm wasting sitting here.