VII. Near Tulcàn, Ecuador

VII. Near Tulcàn, Ecuador

VII. Chapter One

Flying Economy was an informed decision. It allows them to enter Ecuador unobtrusively, just two of about twenty-five thousand Americans visiting the country on an annual basis.

What Toby didn't account for was how little legroom Economy seats leave for passengers. Personally, he's fine with it, but Mike's knees are tucked up against the seat in front of him, and his customary shifting starts before the plane even lifts off. An aisle seat would have been better for him, and then a free seat between them so their elbows don't keep brushing on the armrest between them.

As a general rule, Toby needs chemical assistance to get significant rest on a flight. With Mike leaning into him, changing position every ten seconds, sleep is so far out of reach it might have taken a trip to Mars. Even though Toby angles himself toward the window to make more room for Mike and his long legs, he can't seem to get away.

To distract himself, he starts talking.

He can't touch on anything of real importance—not with strangers all around, not with the noise of the plane forcing him to raise his voice—so he dives into how rice is an obvious obstacle to democracy. (Admittedly, his favorite part about the thesis is the provocative simplicity of taking a country's cuisine and linking it to its political status.) Mike counters with Italians dining on pizza and pasta rather than rice, yet their democratic satisfaction has dropped by a lot in recent years. Rather than challenge Mike on picking Italy as an example, Toby steers them towards a debate of pizza versus pasta (they agree on pizza, but their views on appropriate toppings differ irrevocably), and from there it's just a small step to arguing over the world's best coffee. Mike insists it's Kona Coffee from Hawaii, which supports Toby's theory of Mike's origin. When Toby declares himself torn between Blue Mountain from Jamaica and Café Britt from Costa Rica, Mike falls silent.

Again.

He dozes off shortly later, his left knee a firm weight against Toby's. His head is tipped back against the seat, displaying the column of his neck, and if Toby were to reach out, he could run his fingers along the sharp cut of Mike's jaw, down over his Adam's apple, let them linger at the hollow of Mike's throat, thumb resting on the pulse point.

Yeah, except Toby isn't a creep. Straightening in his seat, he flexes his leg muscles to keep the blood circulation going, then tries to read for a while. When he notices that he's been reading the same sentence three times in a row, he closes his book and leans back. The steady vibrations of the plane's turbines resonate in his head, a deep hum that dampens his thoughts, calms them until they're flowing along like a wide, lethargic river.

The next thing Toby knows, Mike nudges him awake.

Mike's hand stays on Toby's shoulder a beat longer than necessary, the warmth of his touch lingering even after Mike moves away with a soft-spoken, "Touching down in a couple of minutes." Mike's voice is slow, sleep-rough.

Toby nods, the motion as sluggish as his thoughts. Through the window, he watches Quito's sprawling mass of buildings emerge through the clouds, gaining color as it draws closer. Mike is motionless beside him, inclined a little toward Toby for a better view.

It takes the jolt of landing to jerk Toby fully awake.

***

There are some jobs that clearly fall into Mike's domain. Breaking open a locker is one of them.

Toby is casually, oh so casually, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and hips jutting out, pretending to be busy with his phone while keeping his eyes open for unwanted attention. Behind him, Mike is fiddling with the lock. It takes him all of ten seconds to get the door open and pull out the duffle bag that's been dropped by a local contact. He checks the contents, then nods at Toby. "We're good."

"Hallelujah," Toby says with all the cheer of a funeral DJ. "We can blow up some stuff."

Well, at least they've got the ingredients. He shoulders Mike's backpack and picks up his own suitcase. A car—local license plate, no rental sign—will be waiting in the parking lot, the key buried in the bag Mike has just slung over his shoulder. He seems cheerfully indifferent to the explosive potential of what he's carrying. No surprise there, really.

The car turns out to be a cross-country pick-up truck, its dark green paint flaking in several places to reveal a layer of rust underneath—it's fit for purpose. They stash their baggage on the back seat and start driving, windows open.

With Quito at an elevation of more than nine-thousand feet, the high-altitude air feels thin and cool on Toby's face, chasing away any lingering tiredness. The enormous mountains surrounding them seem less impressive than they would if seen from sea level, but they curtail the city on both sides, forcing it into a lengthy shape that conforms to the valley's expanse.

As the airport is close to a residential area, locating a supermarket is an easy feat. They pick up enough supplies to last them for a week in the wilderness—non-perishables, hidden under the tarpaulin that covers the truck bed—and leave Quito to follow the Pan-American Highway toward the Colombian border. Their GPS claims it will be a four-hour drive, but if Toby's experience with Colombia translates to Ecuador, it could take them up to twice as long depending on factors such as road condition, the number of mountain passes, or a slow truck creeping along in front of them that can be hard to overtake on a narrow, winding road. Then again, Mike is not the kind of driver who will patiently wait for an opportunity.

Oh well. Toby didn't choose this profession for its attractive retirement package. He will be picking the music, though.

***

The car swerves off the dirt road onto grass. Low, knotted bushes crunch under the wheels.

There's a patch of penetrable forest up ahead, gnarled trees that bend under the weight of rich green moss climbing their trunks. Mike sends the van on a path straight towards it, and they veer in between trees, low-hanging vines slapping the windshield, to the sound of Dave Brubeck's Unsquare Dance.

As soon as the car pulls to a halt, Toby throws his door open and clambers out, takes a deep breath. "You" —he turns around and points at Mike— "are a menace. A menace!"

Mike is blinking innocently at him from behind the windshield, pure as freshly fallen snow before someone inevitably steps on it. But Toby can see the grin just waiting to break through, hiding in the corners of Mike's mouth. Whoever equipped him with a driver's license needs to get their permit revoked.

"Who taught you how to drive?" Toby demands. "I need to have a word with them. On that note: physics. The laws of physics say that when you overtake a truck even though you can't see what's up ahead, and then you crash headfirst into oncoming traffic because you're an idiot—it means that your speed and their speed add up, and my best fucking guess is that there are no working airbags in ninety percent of the vehicles around here."

"We made it, didn't we? In good time, too." Mike gets out to stand next to Toby. His leisurely stretch makes his sweater ride up past the waistband of his pants, bunching just above his belly button, and the sliver of exposed skin distracts Toby long enough to miss his chance at a comeback.

"Anyway." Mike studies their surroundings with an assessing gaze. "I say we have a look at the target and set up while it's still light. Or..." His lips twitch. "I can go scouting, and you get us started on dinner."

He's baiting Toby. Of course he is, and Toby knows it. Doesn't stop him from reacting.

"Okay. One." He raises a finger, facing Mike. "I am not your cook. Two." Second finger. "If you think I'll let you creep around unsupervised, think again. And three. Three." He pokes Mike's stomach to make his point, except Mike stills Toby's hand with both of his own, traps it flat against his own body.

"Three?" Mike asks quietly. His eyes are clear, stomach rising on a deep breath.

Three? Toby needs a moment before he remembers. He frees his hand, takes a step back. "Three: if you think I'll let you creep around unsupervised with a bag of explosives? Think again. We're in this together, you and me."

Mike gives him a lazy look from underneath his lashes. "Are we?"

Still baiting, but, "Yes, we fucking are. I don't know how you did this sort of thing before—whether you just always worked alone, whether you chained your partner to some tree while you ran off to have all the fun. That's not going to work here. We do this together, explosives and all."

"Agreed," Mike says.

"No, seriously." Toby raises his hands. "If I hang back, it's not because I'm soft or whatever other bullshit idea may have crossed your mind, but because it's the best way to get the job—" He cuts himself off as Mike's previous comment finally registers, and takes in Mike's smiling face. Right. "You were baiting me."

"Yeah." Mike lifts a shoulder, unrepentant. "I so enjoy hearing you talk about job dedication."

"You're an asshole," Toby tells him, but it lacks heat. He rounds the truck to retrieve the duffle bag that contains their equipment.

"Weirdly enough" —Mike chuckles— "I suspect that insults are one way you show affection."

He's not wrong. That's a little disconcerting.

Rather than lie, Toby lugs the bag around the car so he can heave it onto the hood. It lands with a heavy clunk. Mike comes up beside him as Toby unzips the bag. He's standing a little too close, their shoulders overlapping, and Toby bans his awareness of the contact to the furthest corner of his mind.

Silently, they take stock of their supplies, surrounded by the sounds of the forest—melancholic bird calls, a frog croaking somewhere, thick leaves rustling in the breeze. Fine mist chills the air.

"I think," Mike says, "this is enough to blow up a mid-sized ranch."

"Don't sound so delighted about it," Toby chides. But when he turns his head and finds Mike grinning at him from up close, he finds that he can't help but grin back, feeling silly and just a little weightless, just a little delighted himself.

There are crow's-feet blooming in the corners of Mike's eyes, and Toby wants to touch them. He picks up a gun instead.

***

The target is a hacienda from the seventeenth or eighteenth century. While other haciendas in the area have reinvented themselves as luxurious tourist lodgings, it's clear that this one hasn't seen a workman in decades: the stone walls are starting to disintegrate as moss is staging a hostile takeover, several roof tiles are chipped or missing in action.

Strategically speaking, it's a suboptimal choice. While it easily accommodates a group of thirty, its vicinity to the forest and a sprawling layout with several side buildings are a gift to potential intruders. It was clearly picked by someone who is either not worried about opposition or lacks relevant experience.

If Toby had to bet, he'd say that between him and Mike, they could take down the entire group—pick people off one by one, until there's no one left. It's not why they're here, though; all they're meant to do is prepare the scene so that the Ecuadorian forces can swoop in without much risk, apprehend most of the terrorists and let one or two escape to send a message: stay out of Ecuador.

Toby identifies four promising routes to the main house in under two minutes. It's not exactly a challenge; while there are guards, they are scattered at random, little more than decorative ornaments. In combat gear, paired with olive green rubber boots and bored expressions, they remind Toby of cartoon characters.

He and Mike retreat quietly.

Once they're back at the truck, Mike drives it deeper into the forest until Toby is convinced that no one can possibly spot it from the dirt road. He hides the tire tracks, and while there isn't much he can do about broken twigs, it shouldn't be obvious unless you know what to look for.

When Toby catches up to the truck, Mike has already set up their tent and moved most of their things. Except for the bottles lined up on the hood, it looks like the campsite of two adventurous tourists who prefer wilderness to a hostel. With dusk settling amongst the trees and the gas cooker's flame the brightest point in their immediate vicinity, it could be cozy if it wasn't for the hacienda, about a mile away.

Mike deposits the second sleeping bag in their tent before he crouches down beside Toby. All he does is watch, yet his presence is distracting when Toby needs to focus on properly assembling the motion triggers.

"I'll make you a deal," he says without looking up. "You cook, and I'll finish with this."

"Not your cook." Mike's grin is audible, and Toby glances over just long enough to counter it with a shake of his head.

"Like I'd let someone with your pyromaniac tendencies anywhere close to my kitchen. I just moved, and I have zero desire to move again because you burned down the building. I haven't even unpacked all my boxes."

A soft chuckle, then Mike rises. "Pasta or rice?"

"Something with taste?"

"Sorry." Mike doesn't sound sorry. "Today's menu is things that don't smell strongly. You know how it goes."

Toby sighs with the dramatic air of a six-year-old denied his favorite treat. It's for show, of course—he's fully aware that cooking spicy food is associated with a stronger smell that could draw unwelcome visitors. "Pasta, then. I'll just drown it in curry ketchup."

"Those supplies have to last until our return to civilization," Mike says mildly, and since when is he the voice of reason? Quick, send lookouts so we don't miss the riders of the Apocalypse!

"If their choice of hideout is any indication, I doubt we'll be here for more than a couple of days." Toby straightens, careful as he moves the newly assembled gear. In a forest like this, it's a fine balance between setting up something that'll wake them each time a bird flaps its wings, and something that's too insensitive to reliably trigger the alarm if there's an actual problem.

Mike returns from the truck with a pack of thin spaghetti that need only three minutes of cooking—it's why they bought four packs of them. He empties them into the boiling water and stirs before he asks, "Where would you look for the weapons?"

"Cellar if they're smart," Toby says. "Which is up for debate, given their setup. Either way, my money's on the barn."

"The guards." Mike nods.

"Yep. I doubt they'd appoint four people to keep a couple of cars from driving off by themselves, so that barn must hold something more interesting."

"My thoughts exactly." Sitting cross-legged on the damp forest floor, Mike looks perfectly at ease. "So, what's the plan? Eat, sleep, have another look tomorrow so we can figure out their actual number?"

"Just keep in mind that we are not supposed to take them down."

"I know." Mike sounds as if the knowledge physically pains him. It startles a laugh out of Toby, and while he turns away quickly, he doesn't miss the smile tugging at Mike's mouth, Mike's face illuminated by the soft glow of the gas cooker.

Jesus. Toby wishes the tent wasn't quite so small.

***

"Stop it, please." With darkness surrounding them, Mike seems even closer.

Toby shifts in his sleeping bag. Again. "Stop what?"

"Keeping me awake." In spite of his words, Mike's voice is drowsy, the words smudged around the edges.

"How am I keeping you awake?" Blinking up at the tarpaulin ceiling, Toby listens to the rustling leaves for a moment before he adds, "I'm not even doing anything. I'm just lying here, perfectly still, bothering no one."

Mike exhales a soft breath and rolls onto his back. His shoulder comes to rest against Toby's. "You're radiating ‘I am uncomfortable' in glaring neon letters."

"Glaring neon letters," Toby repeats slowly because maybe if Mike hears it in someone else's voice, he'll realize how ridiculous it sounds.

"I can hear you thinking from here. People on the hacienda can probably hear you thinking." Mike sounds more awake now, his tone wry and a little tight. There isn't enough light to make out his features. "I'm not going to jump you, you know. I do have self-control."

"I wasn't thinking about that," Toby says quickly. Honestly, Mike jumping him was not even on the list. "Anyway, I could take you."

"Really." Mike puts enough weight on the word to make it land heavily between them, the acoustic equivalent of a gauntlet. Does he expect Toby to back away from the challenge? As if.

"Yes," Toby says, slow and even. "Really."

Probably.

"You will never even see me coming." Mike's tone is dripping with smugness, and just for that, Toby will use every trick in the book, including the ones he'd usually leave out of a friendly face-off. "Anyway," Mike continues, "if it isn't me, what's got you all hot and bothered? I doubt our rubber boot army is much cause for concern."

"It's not about the op." Toby unzips his sleeping bag a little to let in some air. Two bodies in a small tent produce a considerable amount of warmth, and it's not that cold a night to begin with.

"What is it, then?" Mike turns onto his side, facing Toby. "Spit it out so that we can get your mind on the job." He grumbles something that sounds a lot like, And so that I can get some fucking sleep.

Toby deliberately ignores that last part; it's not his problem if Mike's a sensitive sleeper. He considers telling Mike to fuck off, but he's tired, and warm, and it's dark and Mike is close. "Haley's summer break starts in a couple of weeks. My brother always takes her somewhere in summer—somewhere exotic where he can drool over girls in bikinis while Hal gets to play on the beach. Drinks with little pink umbrellas, a chance to tackle the reading list. I usually join them for a week or two."

"Sounds terrible," Mike says dryly. "I can see why you'd lose sleep over the prospect."

"Don't be an ass," Toby tells him absently. "It's just that this year, with him just setting up a business... Maybe this year, I should take her somewhere for a while, just me and her, so he has some uninterrupted time on his hands. That way he can enjoy a holiday with her later, once he feels like he's in a better place with his work."

Mike makes a humming sound. "You're a damn good brother, you know? And a damn good uncle, too. It's nice."

"I had to be." Toby pushes the sleeping bag down to his chest. "Haley was two when her mom died—cancer. It was an ugly time, trust me. Matt—that's my brother, Matt—he was only nineteen, and while our parents did a lot, they don't live nearby. It made sense that I'd step in."

He doesn't mention that they repaid him tenfold after Jada left—in those black, bleak months when he threw himself headfirst into the job to avoid facing some uncomfortable truths, Matt and Haley had been his only anchors to sanity.

Over and done.

"You can't have been much older."

"Four years. Big difference between nineteen and twenty-three."

"Still, you're a good brother. A very good brother."

Mike's tone leaves no room for doubt, so Toby doesn't argue. Somewhere outside, a nocturnal bird releases a guttural call. Animal voices were part of Toby's training, but he can't pinpoint this one, would probably file it as a type of Guácharo. It isn't important, but it distracts him from Mike's intimate proximity.

Unexpectedly, Mike speaks again, his voice low. "You're a much better brother than I am. My sister and I were split up when we were quite young, after our parents died. It's…" He shifts, the synthetic material of his sleeping bag whispering against the tarpaulin. "It's tough, getting that closeness back when you missed such a large portion of the other's life."

"How old were you?"

A moment of silence passes before Mike asks, "When we were separated or when we met again?"

"Either. Both." Toby rolls towards Mike even though he can't make out much in the darkness. Mike's hand is resting just inches from Toby's face. It would be easy to cover it, even easier to lean forward and erase all space between them, but Toby doesn't.

"She was seven, I was eight, and then we didn't see each other for nearly fifteen years. It's a hell of a long time." Mike exhales heavily. "I shouldn't have allowed them to split us up."

Christ, does Mike blame an eight-year-old boy for not standing up to the world?

"You were a child." Toby shakes his head, the hood of his sleeping bag rustling with the motion. "You were only eight and your parents had just died—don't blame yourself for something that was never your decision. Nothing you told me makes you a bad brother."

Mike's reply is delayed by several seconds, and when it comes, it isn't actually a reply; he simply rolls onto his back and says, "We should catch some sleep."

"Mike," Toby begins.

"Tomorrow will be a long day," Mike interrupts smoothly. "Good night, Toby."

Toby squints into the darkness, trying to make out more than the vague shape of Mike's profile. He considers forcing the issue, thinks about reaching over and demanding that Mike talk to him, but…

But it isn't Toby's place.

"Good night," he replies softly.

They don't speak again after that, the noises of the forest wrapping them up like a blanket: nocturnal animals going about their business, whispering leaves, the occasional groan of a tree in the wind. It's still warm inside the tent, and when Toby finally drifts off, he does so listening to Mike's breathing that has yet to grow slow and deep.