Mohawk stays like that for a while, alternatively scuffing his boots or admiring his gun or picking his nose.

(Really, dude, you could've had the decency to do that when Voodoo wasn't holding his crosshairs at your center chest.)

But eventually, he saunters on down the catwalk, turning his back to Ellen.

"He's moving on," Voodoo radios. "You're good to go."