Page 19 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

For several seconds, Mike is quiet. Then he shrugs his assent, muscles shifting with the gesture, and no one, no one should look this good after having slept in a too-small bed, with hair pressed flat on one side, streaks of leftover dirt from when they freed Paul and Nathan. Mike’s pistol left a black smudge of carbon build-up on his right hand, and Toby found faded traces of the same black, greasy substance on his wrists. Without soap, he didn’t manage to scrub it off entirely.

“Okay,” Mike says. “If you need a different name than the one I used here, I have a couple of passports in my bag. Hidden pocket behind the supporting frame.”

“Yeah, thanks.” With a wave of his hand, Toby crouches down at his own suitcase and pulls out two fake passports he had made for Paul and Nathan. It was a rushed job, not much time for the French contact to produce them before Toby’s stopover in Paris, but they should hold up to cursory inspection.

Out of the corner of his eye, Toby notices Mike frowning at him, still at the desk as though he’s waiting for something. Toby has nothing to offer.

A few moments pass in silence, then Mike turns away sharply. He retrieves a passport from his bag, drops it on the floor next to Toby as he passes.

Once the bathroom door closes, Toby finds that he can breathe more easily again.

***

They make it to Paris without running into any complications. After they’ve landed, Toby arranges a transfer to Newark for himself as well as for Paul and Nathan, booking seats for the latter two under their real names. Mike will be taking a different flight—he doesn’t say where he’s going, and Toby doesn’t ask.

With Paul and Nathan repeatedly interrupting each other to voice their gratitude, it takes a while for Mike to leave; he smiles and nods and says all the right things, and never once looks at Toby. When he finally walks off to wherever his gate is, it’s after directing the shortest of goodbyes at Toby.

This time, Toby doesn’t watch him leave.

***

“Impressive work, Agent.” Liu is beaming like a proud father and no, it really wasn’t very impressive because they almost failed, but Toby doesn’t bother correcting him. “Seriously, Toby. The odds weren’t looking good. We both know how rare it is that we can resolve a situation like this so quickly. Well done.”

“Thank you.” Sitting up a little straighter, Toby wonders whether his tone reveals anything, whether Liu somehow managed to spot the bite mark even though it’s hidden underneath Toby’s button-down shirt. He couldn’t have. Toby is the only one who knows he fucked up.

“Look.” Liu leans forward, lowering his voice and shit, shit, he’ll call Toby out on breaking the rules—and truth is, Toby deserves it. He failed to stay professional, failed to keep his distance, failed to put the job first when that’s the one fucking thing he’s good at—the reason he’s lying to his brother, one of the reasons his marriage stood a snowball’s chance in hell.

He failed.

Barely a second has passed since Liu leaned forward, but it’s enough for an entire universe to have died in Toby’s head. A frozen lump sits at the base of his spine and makes him feel like throwing up.

Liu smiles. “You work well with Mike. Your skills complement each other well.” There’s no reproach, no underlying hint of sarcasm. “I want to request his permanent transfer to our unit, pair the two of you up on a regular basis. Any objections?”

None that would sound professional.

Slowly, Toby shakes his head. “Sounds good,” he says, and it might come out a little tight, his stomach contracting with the words, but he can’t think of a single valid argument that could change Liu’s mind. In fact, Toby isn’t sure he even wants to change Liu’s mind, and that, right there?

Yeah. That’s definitely a problem.

IV. Newark, U.S.

W hen Toby had freshly finished his training, Liu became his first field partner. Two missions in, they started lunching together every second week, and they’ve kept it up even after Liu’s promotion—according to Liu, he’d rather offend his superiors than miss out on Toby’s conversational tangents, and Toby was by no means eager to sacrifice the closest thing to a friend he could afford at the altar of hierarchy. So the tradition survived: every two weeks, unless one of them is out of the country.

It was Italian today, a new place that’s been well-reviewed. Toby’s stomach, comfortably full with lasagna, agrees. They’ve decided to walk back, taking advantage of the nice weather, and Liu is in the middle of waxing poetic about some new sofa he’s about to buy when Toby sees Mike again.

Mike.

Visible through the bullet-proof glass shell of Kroning Ltd.’s headquarters, he’s leaning against the reception, talking to Jesy. His dress pants cling in all the right places, and he’s even wearing a button-down shirt that’s appropriate for an office setting. It emphasizes rather than detracts from his lean, yet muscular build.

Toby’s steps falter.

“What’s wrong?” Liu asks, cutting himself off mid-sentence to shoot Toby a questioning sideways look. Toby needs to invest in less perceptive friends—also in friends who warn him that Mike will be arriving; Liu didn’t even mention that they’ve concluded the transfer. A warning would have been nice.

“Forgot to call the moving company,” Toby says, belated.

Liu raises a brow. He does that well, the whole silently-judging-your-bullshit spiel.

“I’m serious,” Toby tells him. “I forgot to confirm the date with them, and if that means they’ve abandoned me for some other client, I’m in a bit of a tight spot. Have you tried moving all by yourself when you’re blessed with the kind of employer who enjoys sending you on short-notice trips to, oh, New Caledonia or Marrakech or Hobbiton, because why not Hobbiton?” He’s beginning to warm to his topic.

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