Chapter Two

II. Chapter Two

Toby wakes up to find Mike rifling through the bag of equipment that was stored in the oversized in-room safe, to keep it away from the prying eyes and inexperienced hands of hotel employees.

The safe was locked. Toby doesn't ask.

"Find anything you like?" he inquires with the same friendly interest he'd use when asking a child about a trip to the toy store.

Mike glances at him. All traces of tiredness have disappeared from his face, his eyes sharp and bright. He's exchanged the suit for cargo pants, but he's meant to stay out of sight anyway, so there's no reason to object. "I personally prefer Wilson Combat to Seecamp, but the LWS .380 should do. You don't expect much opposition, correct?"

"There are six guards on duty, making their rounds in twos. Someone must be monitoring the camera feeds, but I doubt it's more than one person, and there are enough blind spots that you can get in and out without drawing anyone's notice." Toby climbs out of bed, pausing to stretch, arms raised high above his head. He thinks he sees Mike's gaze flicker down to a strip of exposed stomach, but... probably not. Irrelevant either way. "The cameras and their angles are all on the map. There are no cameras back where I expect them to be assembling the weapons, only a couple trained on the doors leading in. Can't say their security system blows my mind."

Mike picks up the night vision camera to examine it with a critical eye. "You'll wait outside?"

"It'll be easier for one person to get in and out unseen," Toby replies. "I'll monitor the guards and camera feeds."

A glance at the clock confirms that they've got plenty of time before they need to set up. In other words, there's room for a nice, leisurely breakfast before Toby walks Mike through the details. Toby discovered a café not far from Madhur Sons with decent coffee and mostly decent food, and passing by the production hall is only a brief detour—two for the price of one.

Time to become a ginger again, just in case.

***

They find a table at the very back of the café, surrounded by loud chatter and bright colors and more silky cloth than Toby can reasonably handle. He's not fundamentally opposed to things that sparkle, but when silky cloth liaises with rhinestones to take over every available spot, the two then combining with ornate patterns to form an imitation of luxury while outside, street children are begging for money… Then, well. Toby's sense of justice kicks into action.

"Out of curiosity" —Mike turns a page in the English menu— "has the choice of beverages done anything to offend you?"

"Not specifically."

"What is it, then?" Mike sounds mildly interested, but mostly amused. "The translations are creative, granted, but I don't think ‘strange flavor coffee American' is a personal slight. You've been here before, right?"

"Not on a Saturday," Toby says curtly. He snaps the menu shut and glances around the overflowing café. Ironically, their fellow customers are a mix of well-off Indians in predominantly Western clothing, while most tourists are dressed as though they just stepped out of a Bollywood movie. "It was a lot emptier the other two times I was here."

Mike's brows raise as he snaps the menu shut, his full attention on Toby. He really is very attractive. "You got a problem with people?"

"I don't like the contrast between too many sparkles in here and too much poverty outside. Kids shouldn't go barefoot." Toby clears his throat and looks away. "Unless they want to, of course. Running around barefoot is great when you're a kid, don't get me wrong—been there, done that, got the bee stings to prove it. But when there are shards of glass on the road, plus all that trash to get an open wound infected..." The chair is pretty but uncomfortable, made of wrought iron with bars that dig into his spine. He shifts, squinting at the light that spills into the café—it's another hot, sunny, dusty day. "Not that it matters. I know that's not why we're here, don't worry."

"It's not." Mike's voice lacks its usual humorous quality. "But I know what you mean."

"Yeah. Well." Toby exhales and drudges up an apologetic smile. "Still, sorry ‘bout that."

"Why?" Mike is watching him seriously, his gaze sharp, no trace of an answering smile. It makes Toby feel uncomfortably warm to be the focus of Mike's attention—so naturally, he deflects. It's a skill.

"Didn't mean to diss the sparkles. I hear the combination of sparkles and vampires is very popular these days, and far be it from me to judge."

It's only a second before Mike's mouth curves into a lopsided grin. He's sprawled in his chair with the kind of laidback air that suggests he'd be equally comfortable on a sharp-edged rock or a tree branch. "I thought pale, bloodthirsty teenagers are so 2000s?"

"I'm impressed."

Mike tilts his head in a silent question.

"You caught the reference." Toby shrugs. "I admire a person who's up to date on their mainstream trivia."

"Never underestimate the power of small talk," Mike states seriously.

"Amen." Toby places his menu on the table, rests his hands on top of it. "Also, I have a niece who's a fan. You'd think she's too young for vampire movies, but her dad's never been the responsible sort."

Right after it's out, Toby wonders if he made a mistake; paranoia is a natural side effect of their work, where a revealed identity can endanger entire families. But a young niece isn't exactly uncommon; it wouldn't give Mike much to go on should he turn out to be working for the other side.

"Philosophical question, though." Mike's grin widens, turning real. "Can one truly be too young for vampire movies?"

The fact that Mike doesn't pursue the personal thread that Toby opened up—Toby appreciates it. He rests his hands on the table and mirrors Mike's grin. "How old were you when you watched Bram Stoker's Dracula? Five, six?"

"Two," Mike says seriously. "Didn't sleep for a week after, and when I did, I dreamt of top hats."

Toby nods with all the gravity the conversation warrants. "The worst kind of dreams." He glances around for a waiter, waits to catch the eye of one before he turns back to face Mike. "Speaking of vampires, when did you last eat? It's a little-known fact, but humans need food, and I can't have my partner collapsing in the middle of a mission."

"Surprisingly, your partner has made it to adulthood without constant supervision." Mike is still grinning though, lacing his fingers behind his head as he sends Toby a look from beneath lowered lashes. "And long flights always dampen my appetite. Think it might be the plane coffee. Worse than at that coffee shop near your office, believe it or not."

"Impossible," Toby says, deadpan.

"Well, at least the service on the flight was better." Mike slides lower in his chair, casual clothes and a camera slung around his neck, just a normal tourist out for a good time—except for the way he's surreptitiously scanning their surroundings. Maybe they'd blend in even more if they'd donned the brightly colored, gleaming shirts street vendors are peddling outside. The surrounding crowd suggests an abundance of willing victims. Too bad that most colors clash with Toby's current ginger state.

"It's a real-life tragedy that no amount of money will buy you good coffee on a plane," he informs Mike just as the waiter snakes his way towards them.

"Truly it is," Mike agrees, his tone grave and his eyes bright. Toby's last two partners were sharp as tacks, but they'd come without a sense of humor, so this is a nice change.

Maybe Liu was onto something after all. Not that Toby will tell him.

***

The operation goes down in less than thirty minutes.

Mike enters the building like a ghost, no trace of him in the security feeds even though Toby, camped out in a sound-proof van some blocks away, is specifically looking. Using their communication link, he directs Mike to the computer in Madhur's office; the glimpse that Toby caught during his tour was enough to establish that it's a classic desktop PC, which allows Mike to insert a USB stick into the back of the tower that will give Toby access to everything stored on Madhur's computer on the next boot. The addition should go unnoticed until Madhur runs out of USB slots at the front.

After that, Mike pries a window open and slithers into the second production hall, curiously omitted from Toby's tour. Mike's whispered descriptions of his findings confirm their suspicions.

"Pictures," Toby tells him. "Get me pictures. Lots of them. And don't forget about the addresses on the shipments."

"What do you take me for—a beginner?" Mike's low chuckle, deceptively close, makes heat pool in Toby's belly. "I know what I'm doing, Brown."

"Prove it, then." Toby's voice sounds normal, thank God. And his acting coach back in high school, maybe.

"Bossy," Mike mutters.

Toby's response dries up when he catches movement on the screen. "Two guards coming your way," he says. In the last few days, he's seen them peek into the hall just once, but you never know. "Will be at the entrance in a minute. Likely just passing; I'll let you know. Window route is clear."

A near-inaudible, "Copy that," then silence. Smart guy, Mike.

The guards are chatting, one of them having a smoke as they amble along. They pass by the hall without slowing their steps. Good. Move along, fellas, nothing to see here.

Toby waits until they disappear from one feed, a few seconds before another camera picks them up. He relaxes, and notices that he instinctively reached for the gun strapped to his hip—for all the good it would do him in this van. He releases his hold.

"All right," he says coolly. "You're clear. Next patrol should be in about ten minutes. How much longer do you need?"

"Another five, give or take." Even though Mike is whispering, his delight carries through the connection. "Just found a pile of fake AK47s, decent imitations. Wonder how they measure up."

"Do not" —Toby laces his voice with steel— "even think about it. They'd notice if one went missing."

Mike's sigh is more of a drawn-out exhalation.

Even though Mike isn't in his view, Toby leans closer to the screen. "You hear me? We do not want them knowing someone was there. Repeat, please: pictures are all I will take."

"Fine." Mike mutters something under his breath that Toby doesn't quite catch, but he can launch an educated guess.

"I'm sorry—what was that?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing my ass," Toby says. "You insult me; I let you walk straight into a trap. That's how this partnership works."

Mike blows air through his nose, his tone edged with amusement. "You've got an interesting concept of partnerships."

"Did you listen when Liu called me one of his best?"

There's some rustling, Mike's answer delayed by the time it takes to snap a few pictures. When he comes back in, it's with, "Hearing and believing are two different things."

"Straight into a trap," Toby repeats, and finds that he's grinning even as he says it.

A moment of silence follows, then a quick intake of breath and a soft, barely audible thump that suggests Mike just jumped out through the window and landed on rubber soles. He should be just slightly to the left of the nearest camera; Toby can't detect even a hint of his presence.

Another rustle of movement. Out here in the open, Mike won't be able to talk until he's covered the stretch to the fence, which requires a couple of detours to avoid the cameras. Too bad for Mike: he'll just have to listen to Toby talk, then.

"Hey." Absently, Toby cycles through the feeds—the guards from before on their routine path, the second pair on the other side of the premises, the third approaching, but still at a safe distance. "I'm tired of rice. It's bland and sticky, and its only flavor is second-hand because it soaks up everything it can get its grabby little hands on." That made more sense in his head. "Let's get pizza."

Several seconds pass before there's another muted thud. Then Mike says, voice almost at a normal level, "Pizza's fine."

"Fine?" Toby leans back, crossing his legs at the ankle. "It's chewy, Mike. Chewy, cheesy, thoroughly unhealthy. It's certainly more than fine."

"Does" —a car honks on Mike's end, echoed by another, so he's definitely back outside— "your obsession with pizza rival your obsession with coffee?"

Toby sniffs. "I prefer cultured appreciation, thank you."

Mike's low chuckle hums in Toby's blood in a way it absolutely shouldn't. As soon as he gets home, Toby will a) wash the dye out of his hair and remove the goatee, b) get drunk, and c) laid. Easy.

"Keep telling yourself that," Mike puts in, and Toby needs a moment to remember what he's referring to: cultured appreciation, right.

"I will," he says with dignity. He's about to add more when a knock interrupts him. Short, short, long, short. Mike must have jogged some of the way because clearly, he's a lunatic, and he's not even breathing hard. Bastard.

Toby closes the laptop and gets out of his chair, navigating the cramped space to the door. He opens it to find Mike waiting with a pleased expression, bright-eyed with lingering adrenaline and the satisfaction of a smoothly executed mission. At the sight of him, Toby relaxes, all tension draining away—it's the price of waiting, limited control while your partner's in danger.

"Pizza," Mike says, like it's the codeword for a party. As far as Toby is concerned, it might as well be.

***

As they review the mission, tucked into the furthest corner of a place that promises authentic Italian and Lebanese cuisine, Toby can't help but notice Mike's faint disappointment at how smoothly things went. He also can't help but notice that Mike orders his pizza with pineapples. It invites the following conclusions:

Mike is indeed an adrenaline junkie. This is a problem.

Fruit on pizza is unnatural, and unless ordering a pizza Hawaii sparks a sense of nostalgia, Mike's got no excuse.

(Not that Hawaiians actually ingest more pizza Hawaii than the rest of the world; it's all in the pineapple brand. Useless trivia courtesy of educating one's niece is a thing.)

On that note, Hawaii would explain Mike's tan.

Hawaii would also explain the softened, almost nonexistent traces of an accent Toby can't quite place.

Toby is too fascinated with an agent he might be partnered with just this once, or for a while.

This is not a problem as such.

But it might become one.

***

They part ways at Indira Gandhi Airport with a handshake and no set date for a second mission.

Pretending to fiddle with his baggage, Toby uses the reflection in a glass pane to watch as the crowd swallows Mike up. He's done this a hundred times before, with a string of different partners. It's just part of the job: being thrown into a short but intense situation with a stranger, only to return alone, unpack his suitcase in an apartment that isn't supposed to feel like home. At some point, Toby will tire of it, but it's his life right now, and he's fine with it.

He does take note of the fact that there are only two flights leaving within the next hour from where Mike is heading: Frankfurt and Chicago. Which isn't to say that'd be Mike's final destination.

Fortunately, Toby's return flight is on time and will take him straight to Newark—eighteen hours, and he'll be back in his apartment. He decides to allow himself three days to unpack, regroup and wrap up the mission before he starts looking for a new place.

Picking up his suitcase, he strolls off in the opposite direction of where Mike disappeared.