II. New Delhi, India

II. New Delhi, India

II. Chapter One

New Delhi is a monster.

After a layover that wouldn't quit in Hong Kong, Toby's flight arrives with a delay of twenty hours at Indira Gandhi International Airport, where he learns that the wind just changed direction to announce the arrival of a long and extremely hot summer. In the heat, the city is groaning under its heavy load of traffic, ill-designed for a never-ending stream of cars and rickshaws that squeeze through its narrow roads.

Toby's journey from the airport to his hotel is accompanied by constant honking. To his surprise, no one seems to mind when the honking doesn't show the desired effect; he doesn't spot any drivers about to start a brawl, no one is yelling or muttering curses, and while Toby's cab driver is steadily blaring the horn, he does it with an air of resigned indifference. Just doin' my part, ya know?

Toby is relieved when they make it to the relatively quiet diplomatic quarter. Situated in its midst, the Taj Mahal Hotel is an imposing building with a generous number of video cameras tracking his arrival. He pays the driver and waits for a hotel employee to pick up his bags before ambling up the stairs.

The hotel lobby is a typical five-star affair, lavishly decorated with plush chairs and sofas scattered about, skylights of multi-colored glass embedded in the ceiling. A gold-framed mirror running along one wall shows Toby his own tired face, his hair sweat-matted and just long enough to brush the collar of his shirt.

Unsurprisingly, the concierge speaks flawless English, saving him a check-in experience hindered by sleep deprivation and patchy Hindi. It's the little things, isn't it? A mere three minutes after being offered a face towel, he's led towards the Luxury Room pre-booked for one Mr. Mauro Gillard, hailing from Detroit and visiting India for business reasons. As requested, the room is on the second floor, looking out over the pool and the garden.

The moment the door closes, Toby drops his shoulders and allows himself to wallow in his exhaustion for a couple of seconds. It's only late afternoon, but he retrieves his toothbrush from his suitcase, blinking tiredly at his reflection in the mirror. His reflection blinks back at him through small-pupiled eyes framed by hazy green. His usually blond hair is now a dark brown and further pales his skin tone, the trimmed goatee giving him a slightly diabolic air. He slaps off the bathroom light.

On his way to the king-sized bed, he shucks his clothes, sinks onto the mattress in only a pair of boxers, and barely manages to tug a corner of the blanket over his body before sleep overwhelms him.

***

The best way for an organization to hide its true nature is to erect a facade that is actually profitable. That's why Kroning Ltd. does indeed employ about a dozen people to sell LED displays and connectors imported from Asia. Likewise, Madhur Sons produces car parts in its factory located near the old bank of Yamuna River.

Toby spends two days scouting out the general surroundings. The white-washed production hall is at the very edge of a district that is dominated by tiny shops, bars, cafés and street traders who set up their booths everywhere, the entire area alive with locals and tourists pouring through the small alleys at all hours of the day. More often than not, it is only a small step that separates the alluring scent of various spices from the stench of decay.

Red-haired and dressed like a backpacker, with baggy clothes suggesting a nonexistent belly, Toby doesn't stick out. He ignores all offers of brightly colored shirts, deliciously unfamiliar food and genuinely authentic watches in favor of sipping cocktails at a bar that is frequented by employees of Madhur Sons after their shifts. Blending into the background as he pretends to read a guidebook, he learns that the guards patrolling the grounds change every eight hours; at six in the morning, at two in the afternoon and at ten at night. He also learns from thinly disguised remarks that no, auto parts are certainly not all that is being produced.

Someone should inform Mr. Madhur and his offspring that talkative employees are a serious business risk. As it makes Toby's job considerably easier, that someone won't be him.

On his third day, he's back to dark hair and the name of Mauro Gillard. The hotel receptionist connects his call to Madhur Sons, and after talking to an assistant at the company, Toby's on hold for about five minutes before he's put through to Madhur himself. That he gets to talk directly to the man is satisfying, a reward for the preparatory work Toby did back in the U.S.—vague internet rumors connecting his current name to a growing drug ring in Detroit that is looking to expand, which sure is a good reason for the man to be interested in, ah... tools that might ease his path.

Toby meets with Madhur on the fourth day. Unfortunately, Madhur has more discretion in his little toe than his employees have in their entire bodies, and the guided tour only covers the section of the facility where car parts are produced. Toby is still able to read between the lines of what limited information Madhur provides, and the omissions in the ground tour speak their own language. It's enough for a solid working theory.

By the time Mike's flight is scheduled to land, Toby has acquired the necessary equipment and managed to hack into the surveillance system of the facility. As soon as Mike is well-rested, they're ready to roll.

***

Mike arrives late and in a sharp suit that shows only mild traces of wear. Since Toby's own suit was creased and dirty after the forty-plus hours it took him to get here, he is vaguely impressed. However, a close look reveals that Mike's eyes are dull and he's squinting at the ceiling light as he silently closes the door and drops a small travel bag on the floor.

Sneaking out as a red-head taught Toby how to navigate the blind spots of the hotel's security system, and there are plenty of them. The employees, while attentive to guest's needs, aren't paid to look for intruders either, so if Mike is even half as good as advertised, he won't have found it difficult to creep in without anyone being the wiser. Toby doesn't insult him by asking—he does have some tact, thank you very much.

Instead, he remains seated at the desk, points at the bed and says, "Be my guest. Long flights are a bitch, and you look like shit." He sways his head. "By your standards, that is."

Mike blinks at him, drugged-slow. It takes half a second before he replies with a muttered, "Fucking flights, yeah. Unless there's an immediate threat of physical harm, forty hours in a small space just isn't my idea of a good time." With that, he sits down heavily on the edge of the bed to toe off his shoes, simultaneously shrugging out of his black jacket.

Toby considers pointing out that the space available to First Class passengers doesn't exactly classify as small—then again, Mike's legs are longer. Toby also considers pointing out that immediate threats of physical harm would negate the common definition of ‘a good time', but decides it's a waste of breath. It's clear why Mike became an agent.

Adrenaline junkies are the worst type of partners.

"Let me guess." Toby sets his laptop aside to give Mike his full attention. Since he's human, he notices the swell of muscles on Mike's upper arms, obvious now that the guy is down to a white button-down. "Just so we can successfully coexist for a few days: you're the kind of person who gets irritable when missing one workout. Miss two, and you get twitchy, moody and generally insufferable. Am I right? I'm right, aren't I?"

"I will neither confirm nor deny that."

"That's not a no."

Mike snorts. "Honestly, the one thing that'll make me generally insufferable right now is if I don't get four hours of uninterrupted sleep." Yawning, he leans back on his elbows, barefoot, still wearing the button-down and black dress pants. The lamplight paints his skin in warm hues, and Toby has seen similar images in the male erotica calendar his brother insists on giving him as a ritual Christmas present. Wow, Toby needs to stop that train of thought before it derails any further.

"You can catch nine hours, if you want." He averts his gaze. "We start tomorrow night at ten, take advantage of darkness and their shift change. I'm just finishing up my last preparations."

"All right. You can brief me tomorrow. I want a look at the target in full daylight too, so I know what we're up against."

The fact that Mike chooses to speak of them as a unit doesn't go unnoticed; Toby appreciates that. He's worked with a couple of partners who fancied themselves lone wolves, with Toby relegated to some supporting actor role because his usual version of breaking and entering is virtual, and fuck it, but he's no one's sidekick. There's a reason those were one-mission partnerships.

"Deal," he tells Mike. "For your reference, though, I sketched a map of the grounds and a good part of the interior, and we've got access to their security feeds."

Something like respect flashes in Mike's eyes as he gives Toby a long look from where he's stretched out on the bed. Then he nods. "All right, thanks. Happy to go over it tomorrow."

With that, he wiggles over to the right side of the bed and pops the button of his pants, the zipper making a soft, slithering noise that sounds obscene in the quiet of the room. Toby reminds himself to look away. He's suddenly, immensely grateful that there are two linen blankets instead of one.

"Love the goatee, by the way," Mike adds. "Very... distinguished. Very I'm-gonna-rob-you-and-your-granny-blind-but-I'll-do-it-wearing-a-tuxedo."

Toby glances over in time to catch the teasing smile that curls Mike's mouth. It's a pretty mouth. Which is irrelevant to this conversation, and to their entire working relationship. The rules are there for a reason.

"Go to sleep," he mutters, and Mike shoots him another quick smile before he rolls over and away, onto his side.

***

Toby waits until Mike's breathing has evened out before he closes his laptop and, after a detour to the bathroom, puts the ‘Do Not Disturb' sign on the door. Then he settles down on the free half of the bed, careful not to jostle Mike.

Sharing a room is a common occurrence during operations, and Toby's never been squeamish about it, never really gave it much thought unless the bed was too small and he drew the short straw that had him sleeping on the floor—hotel carpets are friends, not foes. This isn't different from Toby's previous experiences, yet there is a weird sense of intimacy to hearing Mike's deep, regular breathing behind him as he settles down.

Mike is basically a stranger. Maybe that's the difference—Toby can't really remember sharing a bed with another agent during their first joint operation; those tend to be easy and quick, designed to test the waters of a new partnership.

After patting the pillow into shape, Toby focuses on his own breathing, on the rise and fall of his chest, until anything but the weight in his limbs fades away. When he falls asleep, Mike's breathing is reduced to a quiet, constant pattern at the outer edge of his consciousness.