Chapter Two

X. Chapter Two

Unsurprisingly, the morning is strained.

Mike's shoulders are stiff, his lips a thin line, and he consistently refuses to meet Toby's eyes. There are several times when Toby thinks about bringing up what is basically just a misunderstanding—this isn't about cutting Mike out of his life; it's the opposite, but there's a need for some precaution before jumping off a ledge.

Not that Mike would understand. He just isn't wired that way.

Yet each time Toby opens his mouth, he takes one look at Mike's closed-off face and holds his tongue. There's too much to explain, too many cards that he'd have to lay on the table, and there's no time for it when they've still got a job to do. As soon as they leave this miserable city behind, its towering skyscrapers and oppressive humidity, Toby will take the bull by the horns.

A few more hours aren't the end of the world.

***

Any other day, Toby would oppose Mike's suggestion that they make their play over the lunch break; today, Toby is happy to throw himself into the rush of finalizing a plan and moving to execute it.

Using the lunch break is a bold choice, no doubt about it, but no guts, no glory. In order to slip in unnoticed, Toby will have to take advantage of the commotion that comes with people coming and going at the same time. With Mike manipulating the surveillance footage, Toby should be able to get to the executive floor. If the last four days are any indication, it will clear out entirely sometime after twelve.

As entering twice with the same ID raises an alarm, Toby will have to wait for Ken to log out before he can move in, and he'll have to be gone by the time Ken returns. Overall, this should give him about forty-five minutes to get the data they need from Chan Teck Soon's computer.

It's enough.

***

Amongst the things that Liu taught Toby is this: you court danger if you get too cocky. Liu didn't phrase it quite like that, of course—there was some stuff about karma and challenging fate with a question as simple as, What could go wrong?

The point stands, though: don't get cocky.

It figures that just as the bulletproof door to Chan's office slides open and Toby thinks, Well, hey, this is easy—it figures that this would be the moment when things go wrong.

"Toby." Mike's voice is tight, which can really only mean that he's met with something that can't be solved with a gun and sheer, stupid luck. "Get out of there."

"What's wrong?" The door to Chan's office is about to close again, so Toby slips in quickly, the room enveloping him in perfect, dangerous silence. He strides forward and switches the computer on with a flick of his wrist.

"Did you just—you just entered the office." There is a clear note of urgency to Mike's words. "I told you to get out of there. Ken Tan just re-entered the building—"

"Shouldn't you be on a first-name basis with a guy you fucked?" Toby pulls the desk chair out and waits for the screen to light up, then shoves a USB stick into a free slot, employing just a little more force than necessary.

"Not the time." There's a punching kind of sound on Mike's end, might be his fist meeting the inner wall of the van, maybe. "You are about ten seconds from the alarm being raised. Get the fuck out."

Toby hesitates. Then he closes his eyes, counting to five before he opens them again. If he aborts now, all their prep work was for nothing; they won't get another chance like this.

"Okay," he says calmly. His fingers are sure on the keyboard, the keys clacking quietly. "The data's about to start uploading, gimme a moment to establish the connection to your computer."

"Are you fucking listening? They noticed. Get out."

"I made a pre-selection: no system files, no sound, no videos. Estimate two minutes." Toby stops typing for a second, checking the numbers on the screen. All clear, everything set in motion because that's why Liu sent him in: to get the job done. Glancing at the camera positioned just outside the office, Toby pushes away all thoughts of approaching disaster. "Confirm the connection, Mike."

"Fuck the op," Mike hisses.

"Confirm the connection."

"They're on their way. How can I—" The sound of rapid mouse clicking travels down the line. Mike isn't half-bad with a computer, Toby learned as much, but it isn't Mike's specialty. He will ensure the data travels on, though, and that's what matters. "Can I freeze the elevators?"

"No." Toby flattens both palms on the table, glaring at the camera lens. "Confirm the fucking connection. I'm not moving until this upload is complete."

"You're a suicidal bastard," Mike barks, and that's rich, coming from him. At least he finally, finally listened because the upload has started. They're both quiet for a moment before Mike says, much softer now, "There's nothing I can do from here?"

"No, there isn't." Toby lets his own voice go soft in response, sinking into Chan's desk chair. He swivels it in a half-turn and back, the spin leaving him slightly wobbly even though his stomach has withstood bigger challenges. He swallows against the sense of unease and Jesus, this might be it: the end of the rope. If Ken and his hired hands find Toby in here, he'll be unarmed—the building comes equipped with a metal detector, so he had to leave his gun behind.

Well, hey. He wasn't under any illusions concerning the mortality rate in his chosen profession.

Fuck.

Toby clears his throat. He glances at the camera and away again, staring at the countdown of files on the screen. His voice sounds raw to his own ears. "You know, you really could have given me a chance to explain, last night." He can hear Mike's inhalation, so he continues quickly. "No, let me fucking have this, okay? Yes, I asked Liu for a new partner because—shut up. Because I want—because I thought it would be nice to have dinner sometime. You and me." Toby runs a hand through his hair, messing it up out of its slick look. He's sweating through the dress shirt, the formal jacket stifling around his shoulders. Flicking the camera in the hallway a look, he takes an unsteady breath. "I was thinking a table for two at the window would be good, maybe with a candle on it? I mean, why the fuck not, right? Nothing wrong with that." He exhales, inhales. The air tastes hot and dry, but maybe it's just Toby's imagination. "Doesn't matter if anyone sees us. Not if we're no longer field partners, you know?"

For a long moment, his only response is silence. Then Mike asks, so quiet that Toby has to strain his ears, "Like a date?"

"We make a good team, but that's not..." Despite the air condition that cools the room, Toby feels overheated, his shirt too itchy and tight at the collar. "There are more important things than work, right? And I want this—you. I want you. But not like this. Not sneaking around like it's some dirty little secret. So, yeah." He pauses. "Exactly like a date." Eyes flicking to the computer, Toby sees that the upload is almost done—five files left to go, three, one, done. He rapidly closes program windows and removes the USB stick, searching the office for a good place to hide it.

"Toilets," Mike says roughly. "Down the corridor."

Toby shuts the computer down and arranges the keyboard into its original position. They'll know that someone was in here, of course; the log of the voice authentication program proves as much. They don't need to know his motivation, though.

On his way out, Toby pulls a few drawers open, swiping books off a shelf. "How much longer?"

"A minute, maybe two. There's four: Ken and three guards. Armed, standard issue guns." Mike sounds uneven, his voice frayed in a way Toby's heard only twice—the first time when they found Paul and Nathan in that windowless room at Nouakchott's port; the second time when Mike talked about his parents. This is number three. Toby can't wrap his mind around that while their plan explodes around him.

He slips into the restroom just as he hears the elevator doors ding.

Five long steps to the closest toilet stall, six and he's inside. He drops the USB stick, flushes even though the sound could alert Ken and cronies. Priorities, though. This is what Toby trained for, and destroying all links to the Agency when he's about to get caught is first on the list. Next is making a clean getaway—unfortunately, the windows are not meant to be opened and it would be a lethal number of floors down anyway, so that option is out. The large air duct that is always readily available in movies is nowhere in sight, so it's either hiding in here or trying to twist the element of surprise to his advantage.

"They're on their way into Chan's office. One stayed behind at the elevator." Mike sounds as if he's about to smash something. Hopefully, the van was built to withstand abuse. "What's going on? Why are there no fucking cameras in the restroom?"

"It's called labor law, Mike." In passing, Toby stuffs his jacket into a trashcan. It'll only hinder his range of motion. "Employees' right to privacy—ring a bell?"

"I don't fucking care," Mike grits out. "All I care about is you."

Toby's heart skips a heavy beat. He doesn't have time for this, though. Not now.

"Listen." He approaches the exit, voice lowered to a whisper. "I was planning to do it myself, but it's up to you now to transfer the data to the Agency. There's a program on the USB stick that's already plugged in. It's called virus.exe and isn't a virus. Run it. You got something to write?"

"Toby—"

"Do you have something to write?" The moment Toby uses the door handle, he'll be spotted. No chance to inch the door open for a quick assessment.

"Yeah," Mike says. "I do."

"Good." Toby takes a deep breath, holding it in for several seconds in an attempt to slow his pulse down. "Okay, good. My password's HMwbiJ10. Capital H, capital M, small w, small b, small i, capital J and then two digits, one and zero."

"What's it stand for?" The click of a pen. "Situation unchanged in the corridor. One armed at the elevator, Ken and two in the office."

"Haley was born in July ‘10." Toby's own sweaty face stares back at him from a mirror across the room.

Mirror.

He snatches his jacket back out of the trash and wraps it around his arm, striking with just enough force to make fine spiderwebs grow on the mirror's surface. The jacket muffles the sound when he hits the same spot again. Careful not to cut himself on their edges, he helps himself to two shards of glass.

"Anyway," Toby continues, stepping back. "Run the program, authentication with the password. It's a secure line—so secure that it's almost useless ‘cause of how slow it is. Stick by the computer until the upload is done, make sure it all goes smoothly. Expect about fifteen minutes. Then..." He swallows dryly and turns away from his own pale face. "You pack and fly home. Alone, if necessary."

"You're joking." Mike's voice is blank. "You do not seriously expect me to sit here on my ass and watch some fucking progress bar while you—"

"I'm dead serious," Toby interrupts. He grips the door handle, but doesn't press it down just yet. "We've got orders, remember?"

"Don't fucking—"

"All right, then," Toby interrupts with false cheer. "Show time!"

Another deep breath. He tightens his grip on the door handle.

"Toby." Mike sounds livid and helpless, just a little bit scared. It makes something in Toby's stomach twist even though this is not the time, not the place. He lowers his voice, hoping that his tone comes out with a trace of humor.

"Wish me luck, Mike."

Just as Toby is about to press the handle down, Mike says in a calm, decisive tone, "I'll see you in a few."

***

Everything goes smoothly until Toby makes it down to the lobby.

After dashing out of the restroom, he drops the first guard in front of the only elevator that goes all the way to the top floor. While he's spotted from inside Chan's office, the bullet-proof glass protects him, and by the time he steps into the elevator, the doors of the office are only just sliding open. He hits the button for the second floor—none of the windows there will allow for an easy escape, but they don't know that he knows that. As long as Mike keeps manipulating the footage, they might believe he'll try.

On that note... "Freeze all video footage, will you?"

It takes a couple of seconds before Mike says, voice tight, "Done. They're coming down the stairs, so hurry up."

"I'm fast." Toby grins at the camera hidden in a corner of the elevator, preparing to rush outside as soon as the doors open. "Bendy, too. And I take corners like no one's business."

Mike snorts softly. "Prove it."

Three, two, one—and Toby is on the move. Down the corridor, rattle a window that is sealed and barred, completely hopeless, but it will trigger an alarm that draws people. "Which floor?" he asks.

"Seven to six."

Okay. Okay, that may just work.

Toby sprints up the stairs to the third floor, quiet, quiet, exiting into the corridor just in time to avoid Ken and his men as they trample down the stairs. Toby presses the button to fetch whatever elevator is closest.

"They've exited on the second," Mike says. "Started looking into offices there."

Grinning, Toby joins a bored-looking woman in the elevator. It takes him all the way down, and once he exits into the lobby, he falls into step with a group of workers on their way out, keeping his steps light and unhurried. Almost there.

Past the reception desk, and then there are shouts behind him. He quickens his pace without turning, but it's too late: the guard at the entrance plants himself in front of the exit.

Toby could take him down.

He can, however, not take down that guy and the two guards approaching from the elevators with Ken close behind, especially not if they decide to start shooting without care for collateral damage. Most of CTS Consulting's employees are unaware of ongoing illegal activities; they're civilians caught in the wrong company at the wrong time.

They don't deserve to be accidental targets.

Slowly, Toby raises his hands. Mike is eerily silent.

***

They put him into a van with tinted windows at the back—fuck film, as Matt calls it when Haley isn't around. Toby tries to focus on the positives.

Unfortunately, he's running rather low on those given he's in the back of a van on the way to fuck knows where, the vehicle swerving through what appears to be city traffic. His hand and feet are tied, he's outnumbered four to one—and that's not even counting the driver.

At least Toby got the data out. And he miraculously didn't lose his communication set: while they did pat him down for weapons, the tiny device in his ear was too small to be noticed by guards trained for muscle, not brains. This means that in theory, Toby still has a link to Mike. In practice, it has either been cut or Mike has muted his line.

Neither are particularly pleasant thoughts.

More pleasant than Ken's smile, though. "You have my badge. And my voice and print of my hand. How?"

"Oh?" Toby affects a surprised expression, shifting nearer to a sharp edge he spots on the metal rear doors. The rope binding him is thick, but the faint shadow of a plan is better than none at all. "That's funny. Strange coincidence, that. I was only looking for the restroom, but see, I have this deficiency, and it means that I always get confused when I'm in a building for the first time. Actually, here's a funny story, because when I was a kid—"

"Shut up." Ken slaps Toby across the face with the back of his hand. What a bitch move, really. It doesn't hurt that much, but it's enough to make Toby review his assessment of just how outnumbered he is—surely not so outnumbered that he couldn't do serious damage to Ken's pretty face because God, Toby would love to, he really would.

He's smarter than that.

"You work with that man," Ken says. He wouldn't look quite so pretty with blood dripping down his nose. "Arthur Dent, you work with him. Men don't run from me usually, so you work with him. Is he your partner?"

Mike... didn't stay? It's the last thing that should matter right now, but somehow, it still does.

"Arthur Dent?" Toby gives a hollow laugh and twists just a little closer to the doors. "I don't personally know any literature characters, sorry. Certainly don't work with them."

"Very funny." Ken narrows his eyes.

Toby beams at him. "Thank you."

He notices Ken's hand signal and rolls away just as one of the guards makes a grab for him. Managing to twist his body around, Toby kicks straight for the guy's stomach. The man doubles over in pain, but any further movement on Toby's part is hindered by the rope. Also, there's one of him and four of them, and all three musclemen have guns.

Predictably, it doesn't take long until Toby is on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the dirty floor with the considerable weight of steroid-inflated muscle bearing down on him. He tastes blood, and if he's lucky, one of his ribs is merely bruised, not broken.

"Not so funny now, no?" Ken leans forward with a sick smile, and a moment later, Toby feels the cold press of metal against his hand—not the sharp edge of a knife, but the rounded handle of some tool. Toby tries to twist away, but there's nowhere he can go while tied up and held down by two guys roughly twice his size.

Ow. Jesus fucking Christ. The pain is blinding for a moment, searing up his arm to center in his chest and squeeze around his lungs until his vision is slightly skewed.

What a bloodsucking, cocksure excuse of a human being, fuck. Toby bites down on a groan because he won't give Ken the fucking satisfaction, but dammit, he was fond of that fingernail, he was; kind of attached to it, in fact. He blinks and inhales roughly, feels blood seeping into the back of his shirt, turning the fabric wet. Someone's been watching too many fucking supervillain movies.

"Now." Ken bends over him, his smile a grimace. "Who you work for?"

"I'm sorry," Toby tells him.

Ken narrows his eyes.

"You clearly didn't get enough love as a child. There's therapy for that sort of thing."

That's when all hell breaks loose.

A violent crash. The van shudders, skids over to the side until it hits what must be a wall. The impact gives Toby a chance to throw his body forward, rolling over and over until he blindly grabs the gun out of a nameless guard's waistband, his tied hands severely impairing his ability to aim straight. Somehow, twisted uncomfortably to make out the man behind him, he gets off a clean shot. It rings loud over the squealing brakes of other cars, of metal meeting metal.

Quickly, Toby wriggles away and manages to shoot a second guard before the man can bring his gun up. The third guard seems to have taken a bad knock to the head, only just beginning to stir as Toby evades Ken's grasp and props his body up against one of the doors. He's about to try for a shot when the doors behind him open. Stripped of his support, he tumbles backwards.

Mike catches him.

"Hey." Mike's mouth is very close to the shell of Toby's ear, his front pressed to Toby's back. One of Mike's arms is tight around Toby's waist. "You found a gun."

"You caused a car accident. And a traffic jam." Toby lets himself sink back against Mike because Mike is solid and beautiful and he came for Toby when he shouldn't even be here. He should be on his way back to the U.S. but instead he's here, right here, and he casually shoots Ken just as Ken is about to grab a gun off the third guard.

Mike is here. He disregarded everything Toby said.

Toby is maybe in love with him.

"You know that you broke the rules, right?" Toby asks, and can't manage to sound even a little upset. "Mission first, remember? Men are replaceable. Did you even wait for the upload to finish?"

Mike's arm tightens. "Well, as a matter of fact, you are not replaceable. And it's not like I ever read the guidance Liu gave me."

When Mike lets go and steps back, Toby sways for a moment before he gets himself under control. He barely registers the dented front of the van, no way the driver made it out. More important are the people staring at them, and shit, this is a civilized country with a low crime rate and an active social media landscape; a daylight traffic accident ending in a shooting will end up splashed across all channels. Everyone here's got a phone.

They need to get out. They need to get the hell out.

Mike seems to arrive at the same conclusion. "I'll drive," he says. "You do the upload." He steps close to deal with the rope around Toby's wrists, and stills quite suddenly. Twisting his head around, Toby finds Mike staring at the bloody spot where Toby's fingernail used to be. Huh. Funny how Toby almost forgot about the waves of pain pulsing up his arm. On the bright side, his rib aches distantly—not broken, he doesn't think so.

"It's worse than it looks," he says evenly.

"Fucking bastard," Mike hisses, and turns back to the van.

"Mike!" Toby would kick him if he could. Instead, he offers his bound hands. "You already shot him. Let's go."

Mike sways in place, then turns smoothly back around and returns to Toby's side. He undoes the knot with precise efficiency, crouches down and starts working on the rope around Toby's ankles. "We need to take the first flight out," he says. "Doesn't matter where, just that it's soon."

When he glances up, his eyes are warm and soft, and somehow, it's suddenly all just a little overwhelming. Toby stares back blankly.

Rope falling to the ground, Mike rises. "Toby?"

"Yeah." Toby clears his throat and blinks, shakes his head. He still feels wobbly. "Thanks for… you know. I appreciate it."

"Buy me dinner, and we'll call it even." The corners of Mike's eyes crinkle when he smiles, and Toby can see it: Mike in ten years, crow's-feet, his hair starting to gray at the temples. Toby wants that. God, yes—he wants to be there for it, wants to be the reason for fine lines of laughter at the corners of Mike's eyes.

He wipes his bloody hand off on his shirt, fully ignoring the people around them. "That's yes to a date, right?"

Mike's smile deepens. "Was there ever a question?"

"Yeah," Toby says. "Of course there was. You're the one who's never been in—"

"You think too much," Mike cuts him off, and Toby is not a fan of people interrupting him, but Mike's tone is a cross between fond and amused, so maybe, just this once, Toby can let it go.

With a bright look, Mike turns towards their van. It's badly damaged, the right fender bent in on itself with the headlight crushed, and Toby is gripped by a brief moment of belated, ice-cold shock because there are so many ways this could have gone wrong, so many ways Mike could have miscalculated the impact.

Toby swallows and heads for the passenger side.

***

They make it through security without attracting unwanted attention, Toby's bloody shirt exchanged for a clean one, his finger wrapped in a white bandage. Their flight is already boarding by the time they near the gate, but it doesn't stop Mike from dragging Toby into the nearest men's room and pushing him into an empty stall. Not that Toby is complaining.

The last call for their flight comes as a rude interruption. Mike's lips are swollen, his eyes wide and a little glazed. He's a sight for sore eyes, and Toby wants him, wants this, them, almost enough to let the flight go. But. But thinking. Good decision-making.

He slides his hand out of the back pocket of Mike's pants and nudges him back.

"Let's take the next one," Mike mumbles, moving in again.

For a full five seconds, Toby gives in. Then he turns his head away, exhaling against Mike's jaw. "We won't be having sex if we're in prison."

"Point." Mike's voice dips low as if to tell a secret. "But what a way to go." He follows it up with a wink.

"You're not funny." Toby leans his head against the wall and notices that the fingers of his good hand have twisted themselves into Mike's shirt. His other hand is caught between them, Mike cradling it to his stomach as though he's trying to protect it from further damage.

Undeterred, Mike grins. "That's okay. You still want to fuck me."

"It's definitely high on the list." Toby trails his hand down Mike's side, then shakes his head. "Okay, move. We need to be on that flight, and I don't put out before the first date."

"Experience would suggest otherwise," Mike says, still grinning, but he finally takes a step back and gives Toby some room. The sudden lack of full-body contact makes Toby shiver, and he almost reaches for Mike again, then stops himself.

They really need to leave.

***

It isn't until Toby hears the telltale sound of the plane stretching almost beyond endurance that it starts to register: they made it. They completed the job; they're on the way back; they're alive. Toby's fingernail is a worthy sacrifice to the gods of dumb luck.

"What are you smirking about?" Mike asks, voice pitched low as he tilts towards Toby. Outside the window, the ground is rapidly shrinking away.

"I'm not smirking," Toby says. "It's too plebeian for me."

"Is that so."

"It is entirely possible, however, that I'm smiling to myself at the thought of being alive."

"Perfectly good reason."

It's not a question, so Toby sees no need to reply.

The plane shudders as it breaks through a layer of feathery, nearly translucent clouds, the engine's hum a comfortable buzz in Toby's stomach. He may not stop smiling anytime soon.

Next to him, Mike pulls off his sweater. It leaves him in a thin T-shirt that looks soft to the touch, a sliver of his tattoos exposed. Toby wants to spend his time exploring every swirl of ink until he knows them by heart. He's jolted out of his distracted contemplation when Mike twines their fingers together, draping the sweater over their laced hands even though it will be obvious to anyone who cares to look.

Leaning slightly into him, Toby snorts. "You're ridiculous."

"You could have died today," Mike tells him, quite seriously. "You did lose a fingernail, plus there's that bruised rib you didn't tell me about. If you think I didn't notice how you flinched when I touched your chest? Think again." His thumb runs along Toby's index finger, gently caressing. "And I distinctly remember that someone raised the issue of a candlelight dinner. It wasn't me, so you're in no position to judge, Bas."

Right after dropping the name, he watches Toby closely as though he's waiting for a reprimand.

"Oh, please." Toby smiles and shakes his head. "I can blame a near-death experience, whereas you? You're just naturally ridiculous." He doesn't attempt to pull away though, prefers to study Mike's face that looks open and content in the sunlight forcing its way through the plane window.

In the end, it really isn't that complicated. Maybe it never was.

"You know what?" Toby rubs his thumb over the smooth inside of Mike's wrist, eliciting a most satisfying shiver from Mike. "Come home with me—I'm done caring. I'll call Liu when we land, and we can have dinner tomorrow night, or the day after or whenever, really. Five days a week, for all I care. But first, I'd like some time alone: you, me, and a bed. Couch works, too. Floor, if necessary. That all right with you?"

Mike's fingers tighten around Toby's hand, his eyes dark. "You have to ask?"

"Rumor has it that's the polite thing to do."

"Sure, I'll come home with you." Mike grins, sudden and wide, his body turned fully towards Toby. "Took you long enough to ask."

"Trust me, I'm gonna make up for it." It's possible that Toby is grinning. Some might even say he's beaming at Mike like an idiot. As long as Mike keeps looking at him with that strange half-smile, Toby can't be held responsible.

***

Mike freezes. That's the first sign that something is wrong.

Toby stops in his tracks, dismissing his suitcase as it rides past him on the baggage belt, and turns slowly.

He knows them. They're from the Agency, often referred to as the Misconducters because internal investigations of potentially rogue behavior land on their desks.

The pictures, shit. All those pictures that would have been taken at the scene, maybe even a video of Mike running the van off the road. They caused a public disturbance without immediately obvious cause, and sometimes there are agents who cave under the stress and go on a killing spree.

This is not one of those times.

"Agent Brown, Agent Redding." The dark-haired man—Welton? Wellon?—steps forward, subtly patting his waist. "Please collect your baggage and come with us—quietly and separately. We don't want to cause a scene." His tone implies that he, for one, wouldn't be entirely opposed.

Toby exchanges a quick glance with Mike. They could take Welton, and they could also take the three men hanging back, silently waiting. It wouldn't be worth it, though—a target on their backs is not what they need. And it's not like they've done anything really wrong.

A minor complication, that's what it is. A delay.

God, Toby hates the day someone first decided to integrate a camera into a cell phone.

"With pleasure," he replies for the both of them. He spreads his hands wide and waits for permission before he grabs his returning suitcase off the belt. In passing, he brushes his fingertips against Mike's side and hopes it will look like an accident.

Mike nods at Toby, a tiny smile tucked into the corners of his eyes. "I'll see you later."

"You will." Toby smiles back before he turns to follow Welton.

One of the smartly dressed men falls into step behind him, a little too close for Toby's liking. With customs up ahead, Toby takes advantage of the short wait to glance back over his shoulder and finds Mike still standing in the same spot, frowning at the two men framing him. Jesus, here's hoping he won't do anything rash, won't do anything that might endanger his contract with the Agency.

Toby doesn't even know his last name.