Ysabel flips through the wallet, a quiet panic rising in her chest. This now seems painfully deliberate. Just cash. No I.D., no passport, nothing that gives a clue as to who she really is. She strongly suspect that everything happening is now some sort of set-up. But as soon as he mentions owing her money, her face reddens in barely contained rage....that likely looks more like severe embarassment. But she doesn't say anything. She quickly allows her mood to even out. Why the hell not?<br/><br/>She grins and says, "Call it a standard C-note when we're out of here." Best not to ruin his assumptions of her. And when he talked about interrogating the stranger with the beer, Ysabel knew something was up with him. That type of torture for interrogation suggested that "Hans" here was probably not really a machine tools trader. Oh well. Two people could lie.<br/><br/>She hissed,<strong>"Are you for real? You want to knock someone out and interrogate them like that? If he's <em>not</em> sent by any of those people, how are you going to explain hurting a civilian? And if he is, he's probably armed. And I sure as hell am not. How about seeing what he <em>willingly</em> says, and only if that doesn't work, your method of interrogation."</strong>She harrumphed and muttered,<strong>"But yes, we can take his beer. Hair of the dog never hurt anyone."</strong><br/><br/>She pops open the hotel door. She doesn't feel a need to say where she thought she was at before waking up here. It's none of the very torture-inclined Hans' business. She jerks her head at the stranger who looks suspiciously like Steve Buscemi, gesturing him inside, and she says,<strong>"Beer first. And you have to find your own keys."</strong>