"Guilty as charged." He shrugged and politely looked away at the end of the sentence. Keeping one's masculine dignity in this place seemed easier said than done. Besides, the human body was a fragile thing -- a thin covering over a sack of meat, in a delicate balance. Easy enough to throw off, whether with bullets or toxins, macroscopic or microscopic.

Alone, and underwater, with two mines on timers just waiting to go off, and no idea when they might blow. He'd been one lucky son-of-a-bitch that day. Akers hadn't, but he'd still done his part. Well, O.K., Tom had been working for fucking Smirnoff and he'd planted one of the damn things. But he'd also used his dying seconds to let S.T. know there was a second one. Hell of a way to go.

Thinking about it was getting them nowhere. Answer the fucking question, S.T. "I was making dinner in my apartment. Normal end to a boring day. Unless someone tried to bomb my place again, I was alive and kicking. Don't remember falling asleep, passing out, nothing. Just woke up here last night."