Bramo's actions carried an unavoidable irritability; the carbon fiber fishing rod crashed onto the gravel with a "clatter," the reel came off, and the fishing line swept wildly across the river, startling several water birds resting in the reeds.
He didn't look back at the fishing rod and went straight toward the black sedan parked in the distance.
"It's pointless, I'm done fishing."
After walking about a dozen steps, he suddenly halted, turned his body to the side, "Hawkins, do you think one day Victor will truly toss Illinois as a bargaining chip for interests? Even... toss me?"
Hawkins had just bent over to pick up the fishing rod when he heard this. His fingers suddenly tightened around the cold metal frame.
He looked up, and Bramo's gaze landed on his face, lacking the usual nonchalance, but containing one deeply buried unease.
