[i]'European mix, class 5, three hundred meters. American, class 5, five hundred meters. American, class 4, nine hundred meters. French, class 5, three hundred meters. American, class 5, four hundred meters. Russian, class 3... one mile. American, class 5, four hundred meters.'[/i]

Smith ticked this information off as each new person drew near, using his rings reaction as the basic gauge for their power level, based on a rating-system a previous owner had devised. The smaller the number, the more potent the mage. It wasn't a perfect system, as it didn't take into account anything more than the rings reaction, but between that and the general feel Smith got from the person, he felt reasonably certain he had accurately ascertained their respective kill-zones. Need be, that would be the distance he'd take a shot from. Most of them were low priority, and shouldn't need as much range-the class three was probably a huge overestimate, but something about Russians always made Smith weary-but he preferred to play it safe with magic. So far, nothing too dangerous, and none of them were likely his boss. The only weird thing was how many there were.

Then everything went quite.

He looked American, from about fifty years ago and halfway across the country, but that was obviously a disguise. Whoever this was, he was a class 2, and that meant nothing less than a one-mile kill zone, with inquisition rounds. So, the boss had showed up, and he was wearing business-casual. That never meant good things. With the looks of the rest of what Smith had reason to believe was his 'team,' it meant that he was likely about to be sent on a suicide run, or a test drive. Amazing how similar the two tended to be, though the latter somehow had the higher mortality rate. Considering the spell he threw up to give them privacy, though, things leaned more towards the test drive. No need to hide information if the group's expected chance of survival is zero anyway.

Folding the paper and getting to his feet, Smith stood up, looking around. In his leather overcoat and business suit, he tended to cut an intimidating pose when he wanted to, and being the biggest one there, it was unlikely he wouldn't draw attention. But, just in case, he thought it best to make sure he had the spot light. Looking over at the man dressed like a hick, he shakes his head, shrugging. "Not a very bright lot, are they? Некоторые компании исключены , конечно." The last was directed specifically at the Russian. From the look of him, if nothing else, he looked to have a weapon, and again, Smith had a healthy respect for the race of people who embraced the 'scorched-earth' strategy as their primary defense.

"First off, let's get some things straight. I don't come cheap. My usual fee is six digits, minimum, and the first one better be at least a three. That said, I don't work with amateurs. I don't know what you're planning, but two of these kids look like they should be in college, and one of them looks like she actually Is. Also, I don't know how long you've been out of the loop, but your disguise is about fifty years out of date... Or were you going for Huckleberry Finn impersonator? Oh, and one more thing. Who was on the phone? Yea, I saw you talking to someone as you walked up. Someone we should know about?"

The last part was a bit of a stretch. A normal client wouldn't answer, and would probably take offence to the question. Private matters were private, and a hired hand wasn't meant to know about them unless it was deemed necessary by the check writer. However, this guy looked like he was less than normal. Throwing him off would help with the haggling, and if there was a team involved, there were other important matters he would need the benefit for. If Smith was lucky, he'd get an actual answer, and be on his first step to figuring out the larger picture. Just because it wasn't his job to know didn't mean knowing was a bad thing, especially when it kept him alive.