He walked towards the young woman, he tried to keep his face impassive, focus on the task at hand, information, survival, retribution, yet somehow her strength in the face of adversity touched him. He wavered. "That bullet was meant for me, I involved you in this," he paused, collected his thoughts, "I need to find who is behind the shooters actions, and to do that I need your help. Again."
He sat at the edge of the bed, tapped out a Szczepanski, offered Rowe one. "The Couriers office, shaped charges, Jacobs is dead, he leaves behind a wife, two kids. Seven at Washington Rec, multiple casualties, including yourself. An attack on my offices, another fire fight, more innocents dead. Lives shattered. All connected, all for what Jacobs, the courier, was carrying." He turned to look at her, seeing her injuries he felt the cold fire of the Novacoke race through his nerves, anger, guilt, his face cracked, emotion was there, just beneath the surface.
"I need to know, did he say anything to you? These are bad people Rowe, if you can remember anything, no matter how trivial it may seem, we might be able to piece it into a lead that will let me put them down."