Finding Hannibal and separating him from the barrage of chefs working on the reception buffet and finishing the lavish cakes was easy enough.

"How're the lovebirds doing?" He asks, stepping out in the hall to light a cigar.

"Catching some sun, can't complain." Face smirks with a cheeky shrug, speedo well hidden under his towel.

"Yeah, well next time a job involves the hard labor of lounging pool side..."

"Your plan, boss. Not mine."

"Mmmm." He shakes his head, "So you've got both smugglers?"

"We've got the looker," he replies defensively; "We're gonna have to flush out the boss."

"No... no... Face..."

"We tried, we did everything we could without breaking cover..."

"Yes, because I'm sure you absolutely couldn't help but stay in character while you were eating brunch with the Missouri Men's Club..."

"That was an official... casing." He sets his jaw, firm in his resolve. "We'll flush her out, boss. At the reception we're gonna grab the one we've got and head for the guns..."

"And I assume you know where they are?"

"More or less..."

"Fix it, Face. make this happen." Hannibal stubs out his cigar against his shoe. "I've got twenty quiche that won't finish themselves."

"Sure thing, boss. On it. See you at the, uh... wedding."

Hannibal frowns. "Keep your head on, kid." He cautions; "You're not the one with his head in the clouds."

He can't help it, it's written on his face just how much he's buying into the charade. "I'm good, boss. Everything's under control."

"Keep it that way." He pushes away and back into the kitchen, leaving Face to head back toward the pool.