Checkmate
Gardner was feeling very proud of his plan.
He wasn’t going to get ahead of himself, though. Not cocky. He was a good student and learned from others before him. Always send in a lackey before presenting yourself to the guy who could ostensibly kill you.
The meeting place with the Gauntlet was a derelict playground, identified by the crumbling metal playsets and rusted bolts in the ground where swings used to be. It was chosen for two specific reasons: It was somewhat open and non-threatening, and it was in eyesight of a horizontal flagpole jutting out past a few buildings. Stuck on the end of that flagpole was the head of a deathclaw. A gentle breeze shook the makeshift flag hanging below, sporting an emblem of a six-fingered hand.
The first person Jensin would see was a heavily armored man with a rifle over his shoulder. He strode out onto the asphalt, looked the other man over through the holes in his helmet, and turned around. “Come on,” he called out.
Second bodyguard in tow, Gardner emerged from around the corner. He was dressed down, chest exposed under some leather straps and a springy question-mark shaped peg leg making practiced stamps on the ground. He looked sheepish, already grinning, lifting his eyes upward to see Jensin like a boy meeting his date at a dance.
“Thanks for showing,” he said. “I know it’s kind of out of the way.”
