"--Danno," rolls off, half like it might have been right after 'Okay,' and half like a puffed murmured repetition.

A moniker he doesn't know quite what to do with. A flag sticking out of a box that definitely isn't a call sign. Not like Smooth Dog or Rawhide or Killer or Red Wolf. It's some derivation of Danny, and even though he's pretty sure that man would hate the comment, it's got a Hawaiian ring to it. It would fit in well with a lot of the names he's sure are still all over this island. But Steve doesn't even need to lay bets to be sure very few people know it. That Danny wished he didn't.

It doesn't fit, but Steve not anywhere new at the game of carrying things that didn't fit in the slightest.

Steve watched the road, instead. They watched the road, and it wound ahead of and behind of them, the car eating it like it was born to. Quiet in the car in a way it hadn't been anywhere between them. But silence was easy enough to manage. Eyes scanning cars, unable to stop looking for Victor in every face that passed them. Especially the closer they got to Doran's place.

Where there was little likelihood he would be, but Steve would rip out the seams of the world for one good lead.