If Gus noticed that Mike was a little out of breath, he didn't say anything. Not while they were outside, at least. Once they were in the living room, he nodded towards the couch. "Take a seat. There's a lot to discuss."

He, himself, took the adjacent chair, as he'd done six weeks before with Jesse. It was a seat he liked with visitors: it kept his back to the window, his face shadowed and backlit, while forcing whoever he was talking to to keep their face turned into the sun. For Mike, though, it was different; he shifted the seat a few inches to the side so they could speak normally, folding his hands in his lap. "You got that call because that is what happened," he intoned tonelessly. "It was a suicide bomb attached to Hector Salamanca's wheelchair. White and Pinkman's doing, I'm sure you've already heard." Maybe not entirely toneless; his lip curled in cold anger at that.