Page 24 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

Back to last names? Toby would have pegged Mike as more mature than that. Just goes to show.

To spite him, Toby smiles widely, plops down in Mike’s visitor chair, and lets his legs splay comfortably. He’s got this. “Mike—and a lovely morning to you too! I think it’s time we discuss our next vacation. After all” —he leans forward to prop both elbows on Mike’s desk— “I hear that early summer is a great time to visit the Côte d’Azur.”

“Is it?” Mike sounds evenly unimpressed, and Toby knows exactly what he’s doing: Mike has decided to translate ‘let’s be professionals’ into ‘let’s act like we’re awkward acquaintances making small talk at our ten-year high school reunion’. Well, if Mike is being difficult to make a point, two can play that game.

Toby squashes the thought that this kind of distance is exactly what he asked for, and that he should welcome it.

***

“You know, Brown—”

“Toby.”

“I’ve planted bugs before.”

“Not on my watch. Let me see you do it.”

Mike stares, impassive. Toby stares back, raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge.

With a sharp nod, Mike plucks the tiny device out of Toby’s palm and looks around Toby’s office with an assessing gaze, expression bland. Even though Toby’s won this round, it doesn’t feel like it.

***

The more reserved Mike becomes, the more Toby pushes and prods, to the point of being obnoxious.

They spend several hours a day working out an elaborate plan when Toby can easily admit that a couple of hours, combined with some individual tasks, would have done the trick. By the time they board their plane to France—destination Paris, then a connecting flight to Nice—there’s a constant strain around Mike’s mouth, but his control holds.

At least he’s back to calling Toby by his first name.

V. Nice, France

V. Chapter One

T he 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. François 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.

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