“This is a surprise,” Deacon said, when Max and Jack found him in the shop’s shooting range, just after he’d finished giving a lesson to one of his customers.
“We come bearing gifts,” Max replied, holding up the take-out bags he was carrying.
“Food. Thank you! I was about to faint from hunger, or call for pizza.” Deacon rolled his eyes.
“Is that what you usually do on Saturdays?” Jack asked.
“Yep. Frank and I split a large one, eating when we get the chance. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a slice of cold pizza at three in the afternoon.” Deacon leaned against the firing line counter, looking long and hard at Max. “He got in contact with you, didn’t he?”
“Twice,” Max replied, then he told him about the emails.
“He’s bullshitting you,” Deacon said when Max finished. “He hasn’t seen
