A series of rumblings ended in a disappointed sigh, as Irish set the transceiver down. "Jimmy has been jammed. We're loners." He walked off the side of the boat and put his hand on the stone. "Marble. The bastard had style." He said, with a light grin.
Irish had lost his cigarette in the collision, but was otherwise just fine. "We better move in now. I'm afraid we ain't going in silent anymore, if this Ryan is half the man I know he is, he better expect him to be waiting around the bend the second he thinks that Ole' Uncle Sam is back to collect his dues."
Irish seemed rather pleased with the situation. "Now, we got non-vital personnel marooned on a tiny island with us, and with no immediate way back to the mainland. We go down or we die." He said, his chipper voice dancing, despite the sober surroundings he's found himself in.
"Thank's to Skippah's driving, it looks like we rung the door bell." He glanced around nervously. His satchel of equipment was already tightly secured, and right around his back.
"I don't like this, Sir, permission to take point?" He asked, reaching into his vest for his weapon, eagerly awaiting a response.
