It was a decent establishment frequented mostly by Valbush’s middle and upper-middle class. The droning of voices competed with the tobacco smoke for attention, but it was not the raucous cacophony of the lower-class taverns. It was a place where people could enjoy a drink and talk without having to shout to be heard. Dragoslav sipped his beer a little slower than he had the previous three as he waited for the man the mercenary captain told him to meet. He had been party to one of the band’s raids against a road crew, but Zoran thought he might be more useful to his employers by using his skills as a former agent. Apparently, they did too, and so he waited. Although it was past the appointed time for their meeting, Dragoslav was patient. He was, after all, an agent, or at least he once was. He knew it was likely that his contact or his cohorts had been covertly observing him since he arrived. Probably longer than that even. While looking disinterested, Dragoslav picked out three likely watchers, any of whom could be his contact.
