V. Nice, France

V. Nice, France

V. Chapter One

The problem with Nice—in Toby's not-so-humble opinion—is that it attracts too many aloof, beautiful people in fashionable clothes that cost more than a dock worker at Nouakchott's port makes in a year, or maybe a lifetime. Dressed for the job, Mike fits right in.

The sun reflects off the sea, dizzying in its brightness, sparks dancing through Toby's vision each time he blinks. The sky is of a blue so pale it would seem white if it weren't for the blinding circle of the sun. He longs for the pair of sunglasses he left back at the hotel. Beside him, Mike is walking with both hands in his pockets, a pair of black aviators shielding his eyes. He strolls along the dock with the kind of easy, natural arrogance that suggests he owns several of the yachts they pass—or he could, if the mood were to strike.

He looks like an asshole. An attractive asshole.

"There it is." Mike doesn't point at any particular yacht, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses, but Toby spotted the Liberty at the same time. It's an impressive boat, all sleek lines and spotless white that contrasts with black and gold applications. The fenders are encased in black cloth, looking as if they've only just seen water for the first time, and anyone who keeps their fenders that well-tended is either a show-off, filthy rich, or both. Fran?ois Jeannot, known as Mehmud Abil to a select few only, fits neatly into drawer number three.

"Subtle." Toby crouches down as he pretends to retie his sneaker, studying the yacht from underneath his lashes. While they're short of a construction plan, the master rooms will be located in the best spot: high up, with large windows and easy access to the deck, really not that difficult to locate. Mike should have a hard time getting lost on the way.

"Two guards on the main deck." To all the world, Mike looks like he's just gazing off at the sea, his lips unmoving. "Likely to be reinforced for the party. Cameras covering all entrances and ladders. I'll need rope."

"We'll get you some." Having wound his shoelaces into the most precious bow, Toby rises, and they keep moving along the pier. "Rope, waterproof bag, tailored suit, trunks, and a comm system that I'll personally test about a half-dozen times. Plus the bugs that you'll have to install. Anything else?"

"I think that's it." Mike's tone is clipped—not impolite, not exactly, just distant and dispassionate; a perfect representation of his attitude towards Mike since their athletic face-off. Any attempt at humor has been met with blank silence.Toby kind of wants to shake him, see whether maybe that will get a reaction.

"How about a present for the host? Say, a gold-printed Koran?" Toby walks deliberately close, lets their elbows knock together. "A hookah? You're a SEAL; I'm sure it wouldn't slow you down."

"It wouldn't," Mike says blandly. "I don't think it will add value to the op, though."

He adjusts his path to make room for a high-heeled woman who's pushing a stroller like she's working a chest press machine at the gym. Once she's past, Mike stays right where he is, three feet of space between them, and Toby is so fucking tired of this passive-aggressive shit.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and pointedly closes the gap again, keeping his voice low. "All right, buddy. What will it take—a rematch? Don't think we'll find a squash court quite so easily, but I'm sure there's a game of darts lying around somewhere. First one with five consecutive bullseyes gets to punch the other in the face."

Mike turns his head to send Toby a look, unreadable behind the sunglasses. He doesn't reply, and Toby's had it, he's fucking had it.

"Fuck you," he mutters, quiet and heartfelt.

Mike snorts, and finally, finally there's a glimpse of the human behind the soldier. "Been there. Done that."

Toby swallows, disoriented by the bright spots that flit through his vision. "Wow, that's mature."

"You asked for professional, not mature." Mike lifts one shoulder, his white linen shirt shifting with the motion. "I've been nothing but professional. You're the one who insists on making this harder than it has to be."

Toby glares at a flag of the Cayman Islands. It's merrily fluttering in the wind, hoisted by some rich person with enough money to buy a million-dollar yacht and the avarice to register it where taxes are cheap. Fuck people like that, but more importantly, fuck Mike.

"When I said professional, I didn't ask for some robot soldier bullshit. If I wanted a machine for a partner, I would have asked for Arnold Schwarzenegger. This?" Toby gestures between them, and lowers his voice when a couple draws close, arm in arm, laughing. "This is ridiculous, and you fucking know it."

"Language," Mike says mildly. They turn a corner into a shaded alley, much needed relief from the sun's glare. It's less public than the promenade—good enough for Toby.

He draws to an abrupt halt, catching Mike's elbow. "Stop it, all right? You've won. You've made your point."

Mike turns slowly and, after a beat, pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. His eyes are a rich, clear hazel, and Toby doesn't know how he thought his one-night stand from last week could possibly measure up.

"What's my point, then?" Mike asks.

"I shouldn't have avoided you." Toby releases Mike's elbow and steps back, giving himself some space to breathe. It's a warm day, even here in the shade. "I didn't know how to act after—you know. So I avoided the problem by avoiding you."

"Wow," Mike drawls. "Thanks." He does crack a tiny smile though, gone as quickly as it came, and it's all the encouragement Toby needs.

"You know that's not how I meant it."

Mike lifts a brow, unimpressed. "You know, when they asked me to transfer, I was told that you want us to work together. I wouldn't have come if I'd know you've got a problem."

"I'm sorry." Toby drops his arms and meets Mike's eyes. "I did tell them that I want to work with you. And when I said professional, I didn't mean awkward strangers, more like..."

"Partners?" Mike offers.

Yeah. Yeah, that'll work.

"Partners," Toby agrees.

Mike purses his mouth, a thoughtful, considering weight to his gaze. Slowly, he nods. "Fine," he says. "Partners it is."

"Good." Toby follows it up with a hesitant smile, and it takes only a second before Mike returns it. There's a dull edge to it—not fake, but not entirely genuine either, and Toby hopes this isn't just another round of their little game to Mike. He doesn't think so, but he'll keep his guard up, just in case.

***

"I maintain that I am much better suited to attend this party." Toby fiddles with the drone—near-silent, equipped with night vision; he can't wait to put it to the test. "You're too memorable."

"I know how to blend in," Mike protests.

Toby sighs. "It was a compliment. Accept it, move along. Chop chop."

"Oh."

When Toby glances over, Mike looks vaguely pleased. He's in the process of wrapping up the bundle he'll bring along, clad in a black neoprene suit that will allow him to approach undetected. That it molds to Mike's body in a way that leaves very little to the imagination is Toby's cross to bear—not that he can't also draw on his memories to complete the picture: Mike hard, naked, rolling on a condom before settling on top of Toby.

Now is not the time to indulge in flashbacks. It's never a good time, really, but now is particularly ill-advised.

Toby leaves Mike to his preparations and steps out onto the deck of a modest yacht—spot the oxymoron—they've rented for the day. It's moored two spots down and across from the Liberty, just close enough that Toby was able to hack into their network, but too far for him to interfere easily in case something goes wrong. He still brought a rifle, just in case.

Laptop open on the floor, Toby looks over at the Liberty. The ship is brightly lit against the evening sky, a couple of hours into the party, the breeze carrying snippets of music and voices. By now, most of Jeannot's business friends—legal business, as far as Toby could tell from the guest list—are well on their way into a happy, drunken haze that should make it easier for Mike to slip in unnoticed.

Mike's bare feet whisper over the floor as he joins Toby at the railing. Pack strapped to his chest, he seems calm and focused. "Ready?"

Toby glances at the gentle curve of Mike's spine, the way it flows into a tight butt. "Ready."

"Expect me back in an hour," Mike tells him, grinning with anticipation. Their Mauritanian adventure has clearly not changed him too much: he's still the kind of guy who runs headfirst into any action he can find. "If you get bored, feel free to think of a way for us to crack the jackpot in Monte Carlo."

"Ha fucking ha." Although now Toby is wondering if they could—just theoretically, of course. Would they have what it takes? Fucking Mike. "Less talk, more action, please."

Mike pauses to shoot Toby a smug grin. Then he turns, takes a few steps, and executes a smooth header. He submerges with a soft splash of water that won't carry far. "Show-off," Toby mutters even though Mike can't hear him.

Toby knows what to look for, or he never would have spotted those minor disturbances of the water that hint at a body moving below. Mike resurfaces right next to the Liberty, hugging the hull so he won't be seen from above. The rope finds its target on the first try, and then he swings himself up, quick and efficient, while Toby keeps the rifle trained on where Mike is about to come up—just in case.

Mike glides onto the deck unseen, and ducks under a set of stairs to change into his suit. Barely three minutes have passed when he activates the comm link, and he isn't even out of breath.

Fuck, he's good.

"I'm in," Mike murmurs. The technical equipment makes it sound close and intimate.

"I can see that." Toby bites the inside of his cheek as he does a quick sweep of Mike's surroundings. "All right. Continue up the stairs. There's a group of party guests on the next deck, you'll fit right in."

"Copy that." Mike steps into full view, his suit well-tailored with the jacket gaping open, two of its three buttons undone. He cleans up nice.

While Mike ascends the stairs, Toby sends the drone on its merry way. He alternates between the footage on his laptop and the binoculars to identify any obstacles before they can pose a problem. Clear. Clear. Two guards off to the side, keeping an eye on a group that has hit the booze hard, all sloppy gestures and exaggerated laughter. Should be fine.

Toby brings the binoculars up to Jeannot's room just in time to catch movement behind the dark windows. He adjusts the position of the drone, then curses quietly.

Mike hums in his ear—a question.

"Someone just entered Jeannot's room," Toby says. "Take it slow while I find out what's going on."

Mike doesn't reply, but when Toby checks on him, he finds him ascending the stairs like he's got all the time in the world. Toby focuses back on the room.

When a lamp switches on, he catches a glimpse of long, dark hair and a petite figure, then the woman disappears from view once more. Moments later, the warm lamplight is joined by the blue glow of a TV.

Well, shit.

"It's Audrey Jeannot. Looks like she's settling in for a nice evening in front of the TV." Toby exhales through his nose, ignoring the background noises transmitted by Mike's microphone as he recalls the gist of information they received on Jeannot's daughter: just turned twenty-five, a young, modern woman who's been raised as daddy's little princess and is unfamiliar with the word ‘no'. She's rumored to be a party girl, even now, so her father's covert, rabbit-hole slide into the embrace of a radical imam must have come at a time when she was old enough to stand her ground.

It seems her father's business colleagues don't appeal.

Mike will.

Toby locates him in the vicinity of the drunken group. He's leaning against the railing, gazing out at the sea with a drink loosely clasped in one hand and his jacket fully unbuttoned. A paper lantern outlines the angles of his face. If there is any truth to the rumors, Audrey won't turn him away.

What next, though?

Sleeping pills? Didn't bring any; they didn't expect anyone to cozy up in Jeannot's room smack in the middle of a party. Medicine cabinet? Unlikely—Imam Sadart never released a specific fatwah on the topic, not like he did on Victoria's Secret, secular democracies and beer, but they still fall under the general prohibition of mind-altering substances. Jeannot might be playing the game right now, serving his guests whatever alcohol their little hearts desire, but he would have adapted the medicine cabinet in his bathroom to suit his beliefs. Even if he hadn't, they wouldn't want Audrey waking up asking about a good-looking stranger; where did he go, daddy?

They need to get her out of the room.

"Mike. You listening?"

Mike hums, lips curving around the rim of his drink.

"Audrey is still there. We need to get her out." Toby checks on her: she's scrolling through her phone even though the TV is on. Her lipstick is very red. Daddy won't approve. "You need to get her out."

"Honey trap?" Mike murmurs, easily mistaken for a drunken mumble stolen by the wind.

"Won't be your first, I assume?"

"No."

Of course not. Whatever unit had snatched Mike up after his stint with the SEALs would have seen his potential. He would have had some training. They're not too picky, mind; Toby was offered an introduction, and he laughed in their faces because if it's information he wants, he stands a better chance of seducing it out of a computer than a human.

"Good." Toby scans the path they've worked out for Mike—clear. The security footage loop is ready to go. "Here's the plan: you pay Miss Audrey a little visit, charm her, get her out of daddy's room by suggesting you'll meet up elsewhere."

Mike is already moving, navigating the crowd with easy confidence. He disappears from sight as he turns into a corridor before his voice comes in, quiet but sure. "Any advice?"

"Don't get caught?"

Mike snorts. "On Audrey."

"She likes bad boys." Toby hesitates. "Mess up your hair a bit more, undo the first two buttons of your shirt, sling the jacket over your shoulder. You're an entrepreneur, but with a dangerous edge. You can't be trusted to play by the rules if the alternative sounds like more fun."

"Clichéd," Mike says.

"We're not trying to win a prize for originality." Toby brings the drone around to monitor the door where Mike is about to exit; the rear end of the middle deck is not intended to be frequented by guests, but as it holds nothing of real interest, it isn't closely watched, just a surveillance camera and a guard passing by on occasion. "Deck is clear."

"Exiting now," Mike replies.

Toby activates the loop. "Go."

He watches Mike step onto the deck a moment later, moving towards the railing without hesitation. He uses it to launch himself up, and Toby activates the loop for the next camera, deactivates the other one while Mike swings himself onto the top deck. The whole thing took less than a minute.

"Don't do something stupid," Toby advises. Somehow, he feels a little on edge with this whole thing, tension spiraling out from the base of his neck.

Mike exhales through his nose, all the reaction Toby gets before a knock distantly translates through the comm link.

One hand on the rifle, just in case, Toby moves the drone into a better position. On screen, he sees Audrey sit up, look at the door, then slump back into the sofa.

"Try again." Toby isn't sure why he's whispering.

Mike complies—another knock, followed by a soft, "Mademoiselle Jeannot? Audrey?"

This time, Audrey does get up to open the door. Toby can't make out her expression, but he does note the change in her body language when she catches sight of Mike—her shoulders straighten, head tilting up. "Oui?"

"Bonjour." Mike's French is smooth and beautiful, his accent so faint that he must have spent some time in a French-speaking environment. "Ton père m'a envoyé pour s'assurer que tu ne t'ennuies pas."

Uh. Jeannot would never send someone as good-looking as Mike to make sure that his daughter isn't bored. What is Mike doing?

"Mon père?" Audrey sounds as skeptical as Toby thought she would, easily seeing through the lie, and oh. Toby gets it now.

"Ah." Mike's voice dips low and slightly husky as he admits that well, truth be told, he's here on his own volition because he saw her earlier, and she looked just as bored as he felt, polite small talk and all, not his scene. They could have a lot of fun being bored together, non?

Toby exhales silently, lowering the binoculars for a moment. It's a job.

It doesn't entirely soothe the sting of irritation when Audrey invites Mike inside with a tinkling laugh. This is all according to plan. There was never any doubt that Mike's looks would come in useful at some point, and Toby is a professional; he won't let personal feelings get in the way of a job well done.

Focus.

Toby checks the drone footage, then raises the binoculars again, absently listening to Mike and Audrey exchanging thinly veiled innuendo while he scans the surroundings to ensure that no one is approaching Jeannot's rooms. Everything looks normal, party guests milling about in suits and costumes that clash with the warm evening, Jeannot himself holding court on an enormous white sofa that wouldn't look out of place in some porn king's lair, sipping from a drink that's almost certainly a virgin something-or-other.

Toby could use a real drink right now. Except he's a professional, so he's damn well going to behave like one.

In his ear, Mike chuckles breathlessly, a dark edge to it. "Pas ici." Not here, and good, he's moving this along. Took him fucking long enough. (It's been four minutes. Toby's counting.)

"Pourquoi pas?" Audrey asks, why not, and Toby doesn't want to know where her hands are, whether she's touching Mike—which of course she is because she'd probably like nothing more than to spite her dad by having sex right there on his couch. They disagree about the means, but Toby does applaud her delight in flouting her father's rules. Now, if she could do it in a way that doesn't involve Mike, Toby would be grateful.

"Parce que—" Mike stops talking for a beat, and Toby keeps his attention resolutely on the surroundings, the Liberty shining in the night, colorful like a circus come to town. When Mike continues, there's laughter in his voice, a breathless quality as he explains that he loves a risk as much as the next guy, but he'd rather not have Jeannot catch him balls-deep in his little girl while they're negotiating a business deal.

Mike was balls-deep in Toby.

Abort the thought.

Toby unclenches his hand just as Audrey agrees to meet Mike in ten minutes, in her own room that comes with a door and a lock. Mike will never show, of course—with some luck, Audrey will be too embarrassed to ask around for the hot stranger who stood her up. Toby doesn't feel so much as a shred of pity; she doesn't know Mike, so it matters very little if there's this one tiny thing she can't have.

Not that Toby knows Mike.

Oh, he knows what Mike sounds like when he comes; that Mike is incapable of sitting still on a plane; that Mike puts himself in the line of fire for strangers without a second thought. But Toby doesn't know Mike.

He needs to remember that.

***

Audrey leaves first.

Mike leaves some five minutes later, collects his bag and takes a header off the Liberty. Shortly after, he resurfaces next to the boat where Toby is already waiting with a towel and some off-handed quip about leaving a lady hanging. He doesn't linger when Mike peels the wetsuit off, yet can't help sneaking a glance at Mike's smooth chest and flat stomach, the faint light of the Liberty bouncing off Mike's abs.

Damn it all.

Toby swallows and busies his hands by recalling the drone. While Mike is recounting some details about Jeannot's room and where he hid the bugs, Toby shuts down the laptop, packing up. The sooner they leave, the better his chance of escaping with his sanity intact.

***

Stripped down to a pair of boxers, teeth brushed and eyes itching with tiredness, Toby steps out onto the balcony. The night air is warm and dry on his face. He's feeling calm now, able to appreciate the view below which could have been ripped straight out of a coffee table book: Nice's port, illuminated by thousands of multi-colored lights that reflect off the sea's black expanse in streaks of blue and yellow and green, boat masts reaching for the sky like skeleton fingers.

It's been three days since he last spoke to Matt and Haley. A couple of years ago, that would have been unthinkable, but things have been getting better, much better, to the point where Toby no longer feels guilty each time he leaves for more than a few days. It's a good sign, the fact that he and Matt rely on each other a little less these days.

When Matt picks up, he's in a hurry—having dropped Haley off at a friend's house, he's on his way to meet a client. Toby wishes him good luck and is about to hang up when Matt stops him.

"Hey, wait. You sound exhausted." A short pause while Matt seems to check for his train departure. "You okay? What time is it for you right now?"

"Just past eleven." Toby glances to the right, at the neighboring balcony that's connected to Mike's room. The balcony door is ajar. There's no sign of Mike, but Toby lowers his voice just in case, keeps his answer vague. "And I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all—also missing you guys. Thanks for checking, though."

"Too tired for words, I take it?" The phone transmits the hustle and bustle of a subway station, while the only sounds that travel up to Toby's balcony are faint snatches of music from the bars lining the port promenade.

"Not too tired to notice when I'm being mocked." Setting both elbows on the banister, Toby presses the phone against his ear and closes his eyes. The night smells of salt and cypresses. "Seriously, I'm okay. Let's do something nice when I get home, though. Take the princess to the fair, let her walk out with a huge pink elephant, that sort of thing."

"Since when do you refer to Haley as ‘princess' when she isn't around?"

Right. Toby had hoped Matt wouldn't pick up on that. "I'm tired and thus cannot be held responsible for anything that comes out of my mouth," he says. "Now good luck with your client, okay? I'll see you guys in a couple of days."

"Have a safe trip," Matt says, and while he doesn't sound convinced, he knows not to push for more. Most of the time, he seems willfully ignorant of the gaps in Toby's tales of travel, has long since stopped inquiring about the specifics of Toby's work.

It's entirely possible he believes his brother to be a globe-traipsing criminal. If so, he's chosen to hold his tongue.