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the telltale movement of his eyes giving him away. Before she could challenge him, the waitress arrived with their two coffees and two of the largest mounds of pancakes Butler had ever seen. He stared at them in disbelief.
    “Seriously, half that would still be far too much!” protested Butler, looking around his mound to the lithe and athletic figure of Swanson.
    Swanson missed little. “I’ve got an extremely fast metabolism,” she said in response to his quizzical look.
    “I’ll gain three pounds just looking at this,” murmured Butler as Swanson tucked in.
    She washed down her first mouthful and picked up where she had left off. “So, what was the name of your firm?”
    Butler took a mouthful just as she began to speak. He took his time masticating the melt-in-your-mouth pancake, not an easy task as he desperately tried to stall long enough to work out exactly what he was going to tell Agent Swanson.
    “Well?” she prompted.
    “I worked for…” the sight of the Chrysler pulling to a stop at the curb stopped him in his tracks. Swanson followed his gaze out of the diner’s window and calmly reached for her cell phone.
    Butler’s reprieve had been short lived. They knew he was with a senior FBI Agent. Whoever was pulling the strings had obviously decided this was no longer an issue and Butler’s removal was worth that level of fallout. He knew Swanson was a dead woman, her intervention had sealed that. He thought he’d have time to work out a way to save her. The arrival of Chan and Smith so publicly was an extremely worrying turn of events. Such an overt display would suggest the timescales were even less than Butler had feared.
    “Don’t!” warned Butler. Despite the early hour, the diner had a number of patrons taking advantage of their 24/7 operation.
    “Don’t what?” replied Swanson angrily lifting the cell to her ear.
    “Call for backup. They’ve already decided we’re collateral, no point adding others.”
    Smith and Chan exited the Chrysler and took up station at the curbside. The Band-Aid on Smith’s nose proudly displayed Swanson’s earlier intervention.
    “What in the fuck are you talking about?” Swanson was beginning to get seriously pissed off with his cryptic approach to whatever was going on. She began to move from the booth but was stopped by Butler, his hand snapping across and firmly pinning hers to the table.
    “I said don’t!”
    “Take your hand the fuck off mine,” she hissed angrily. Her body continued to move despite her hand being left behind, leaving her in the bizarre situation of leaning towards Butler while trying to get away from him. “I’m going to speak with those two assholes and find out what they want.”
    “Fine,” Butler released his grip and let her walk two paces away before adding, “but they’re going to kill you.”
    Swanson laughed but saw nothing in Butler’s face to suggest that he was being anything but sincere. She looked outside. Her smile dropped slightly and she noticed that her movement had resulted in a readying of Chan and Smith. Their jackets had been opened and their handguns visible. The FBI standard issue weapon was a Glock. Years earlier it had been possible to use a personal weapon but those times had long since gone. Every FBI Agent who wished to remain one carried a Glock. From what Swanson could make out at the distance between herself and Smith and Chan, neither carried a Glock. Not good.
    Noticing her hesitation, Butler went on. “They won’t come in here, too many cameras. One above the till, one in the corner on the way through to the restroom and if I’m not mistaken, that smoke detector is a fish eye camera,” he said without looking at any of them. “It’s a twenty-four seven joint, lots of drunks and brawls. They’ll have a direct alarm to the police and the cameras will be linked to the web. They can’t simply steal the tapes. We’re safe for now.”
    Swanson sat back down. She had a feeling Butler was