Page 14 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“You’ve almost made it,” he tells them. His voice comes out scratchy, as though he’s forgotten how to use it. Turning to Mike, he tucks his hands into his pockets and stares at a spot just left of Mike’s ear. “Who’s creating the distraction?”

“Better keep you out of sight.” Mike frowns. “I’ll be the asshole American tourist who’s convinced that someone stole from his room.”

Toby nods with the air of a connoisseur. “A classic.”

He’s trying, he really is. Mike is too: he cracks a wan smile that’s really more a grimace, a pale flicker of his radiant normal. His voice is tight. “Oldie but goodie. Give me a couple of minutes before you follow.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Separating from the shadows, he walks forward and is caught by the full glow of the hotel’s porch light, strolls into the building without a backwards glance. Toby stares after him, a sense of deep unease settling in his bones.

He shakes himself out of it. After pasting a reassuring grin on his face, he turns to Paul and Nathan. “Almost there, fellas. Are you with me?”

***

Once Nathan has washed off the dried blood, his head wound proves to be shallow. Paul’s bruise will take a few days to fade, but nothing is broken. They’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.

Toby isn’t fine. He feels hazy, jittery, too big for his skin. Maybe it’s the adrenaline wearing off, or the gut punch of an op that nearly failed.

He almost lost his partner. He’s never come quite this close before, within just an inch of it.

He almost lost Mike.

Gently, with control, he closes the connecting door between the two rooms and leaves Paul and Nathan to their exhaustion. They might wake up at some point during the night, dark images pressing in, but for now, they’re slumbering peacefully. At least someone is. In the other room, Toby pauses at the desk to confirm that the alarm system he set up is running smoothly, then turns his attention to Mike.

Who is preparing for a second trip to the port.

“What” —Toby puts great weight on each word— “are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Mike remains focused on his packing job. Neatly arranged on the bed near him are the three complimentary mini-bottles of toiletries supplied by the hotel, their previously colored contents replaced with translucent liquid. Toby isn’t an idiot. In fact, he’s pretty smart, graduated with top marks and all, so he can make an educated guess as to what it is, and shampoo, shower gel and conditioner don’t make the list.

“Something stupid,” Toby says. “That’s what I think you’re doing, but feel free to convince me otherwise.” He draws closer, peering around Mike into the backpack. Pistol, knife, rope.

Mike turns away to grab some ammunition.

“This,” Toby points out, talking to Mike’s back, “is the part where you tell me there’s a perfectly good and sane explanation for what you’re doing.”

Mike remains silent and yeah, okay. Something stupid it is.

Sitting down on the mattress, Toby picks up one of the bottles, weighing it in his hand as Mike returns to stuff the ammunition into his bag. “When you,” Toby begins lightly, “explained to Paul and Nathan why we’d have to lie low, did you listen to yourself? Specifically to the part where you told them we don’t actually have a mandate?”

“No one asked you to come.” Against the ceiling light, Mike is reduced to a silhouette. “I’m used to doing things alone.”

There’s a glaring flaw in Mike’s plan, namely the fact that there is no way, no way in fucking hell that Toby will let him go anywhere, and especially not alone—not when there are around thirty-eight ways this could go terribly wrong, not after what happened earlier, not when Toby’s chest still feels tight, even now.

“Oh, you’re used to doing things alone. Well, clearly that makes sense, then.” Shaking his head, Toby sets the bottle aside and leans back on his elbows, away from the light until it is no longer quite so blinding, stops cutting straight into his skull. In theory, he could pull rank and order Mike to stay, but somehow, he doesn’t think it would go over well. It’s not the kind of rapport they’ve established.

“It does,” Mike grits out.

Toby snorts, doesn’t even try to keep the derision out of his tone. “What the hell’s this about, really? Got to prove you’re a big boy? A warrior, one man against Mauritania?” Toby consciously lowers his voice. “Come the fuck on.”

“As I said” —Mike directs his determined frown at a point above Toby’s left shoulder— “you don’t have to come.”

“Jesus. Were you dropped on the head as a child? Repeatedly, maybe?” Toby shoves a rough hand through his hair, then sits up to grab Mike’s wrist, forcing him to stay. With a thumb on the pulse point, Toby feels the accelerated beating of Mike’s heart and this, right here, is his confirmation that Mike is just as out of it as Toby.

Mike stills. There’s a beat when they stare at each other, silence spiraling out and making the room expand around them.

Toby swallows. “We...” He has to stop, take a deep breath. “We just took out several members of a terrorist cell. We got the hostages out alive. You almost got shot, and neither of us has had a wink of sleep since we arrived. We are not welcome here.” He tightens his grip, just briefly. “This? All of this? Is why it would be a monumentally bad idea for you to go after the one guy who got away. I doubt he’s a threat.”

Mike is absolutely still, his gaze fixed on Toby’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. They stand out against Mike’s tanned skin.

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