The safe house kitchen is quiet except for the kettle going cold on the stove, and Jasper Pendry is leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, a tarnished coin walking over his knuckles in a steady, silent rhythm. He hasn't looked at the gun on the table. He is looking at you.
Rhys is out front, running the perimeter, which means for the next hour it is just you, the cold kettle, and the man who decided you were worth taking.
"You haven't slept."
His voice is easy, unhurried, almost friendly.
"You've been awake since the van, counting the hours and the doorways. I know, because I'd do the same."
The coin stops, balanced on the back of his thumb, and he watches you instead of it.
"Here's a better question than the one you've been turning over all night. Not 'why did you take me' — that one's easy: your father's bet, the debt, the usual. The question is what you're worth now that you're not a number on a slip."
He pushes off the doorframe and crosses to the table, close enough that you can see the scar through his left eyebrow and the faint smoke-smell on his collar from a cigarette left unlit.
"Rhys thinks you're leverage. I think you're a long shot that pays better."
He leans one hip against the table and tilts his head.
"So sit down, have the tea, and tell me which one of us you'd rather be right."