Dexter spent the whole time at Ballard on the ship. He had no desire to go explore this mess of a city. His thoughts were elsewhere. The desk in front of him was laid out with an abundance of colorful charts and graphs. Lines and notes were drawn in small, neat handwriting across them from a charcoal pencil the captain had borrowed from Levi's stash. Blueprints accompanied the other papers; crude drawings of machinery he was familiarizing himself with. Weapons, security, evey nick and cranny that could be used as a hiding place or shelter from enemy fire... Dexter plotted it all out, committing it to memory. This next job was an important one, and he couldn't allow himself or his crew to mess it up.
He checked the watch on his wrist. It had been about five hours now, and he was sure that any minute now at least a few of his comrades would come running aboard, apologizing profusely for the trouble they were about to bring him. Sure enough, he heard a soft knock on the door. Never a good sign.
With a sigh he slid his chair back and stood up. He moved across the room, his heavy boots making soft thuds on the ships floor as he walked to the door. He opened it, and his steely gaze rested on Winter, who stood patiently with her hands behind her back. “I'm assuming you're going to inform me we should depart soon.” He said, raising one eyebrow in question, “Do we need to stop by any prisons on our way, or did they all manage to avoid arrest this time?”