Rush digests the information silently, moving briskly out of the building and into the cab. He responds only with a taut, tight-jawed nod. His hands grind into fists and flex out again in a shuddering, uncontrolled motion, the thin scars on his wrists blanching into hard-edged white.

Fring has a means of protection against standard firearms.

That is not insurmountable.

Rush does not require firearms.

There's a darkly familiar adrenaline boiling in his veins, cold and coursing, the sting of the bruise on his face wholly disregarded. He uncoils from the cab, his brusque movements charged, his expression locked in a muted, grim blaze.

They'll be expecting them.

Rush does not care.