"I didn't pull the trigger to kill him, just his lackies. They killed one of mine," Vasquez says, eyes burning with the fierce defiance he'd felt when McCann had opened fire and hit Faraday. No one touched his people, especially ones that he'd brought into his circle the way he'd opened up for Faraday.

He's still hoping no one noticed the way he called him guerito, hoping no one knew how far down he'd connected. He shifts and digs out his lasso, holding it up. "Some weapons, just not the ones I prefer. You can have knives," he allows. "Mostly kitchen knives, so either you can cut a man's throat or make dinner," he jokes.

Gesturing to himself, he keeps a steady gaze on the other man. "Vasquez." No first name, not yet. That's heavy currency. "Del Rey? You don't look Mexican."