Page 25 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“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?”

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