Page 34 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Your brother really thinks you’re a crime lord?” Mike shakes his head, seeming more baffled than amused.

“I don’t know what my brother thinks. The workings of his brain are a mystery to me—a closed book, a riddle wrapped up in an enigma, think: sausage wrapped in bacon. I honestly believe it’s a mystery even to him with an alarming amount of frequency.”

A light chuckle as Mike leans back, stretching out on the deck chair like someone just settling in for a nice, relaxing afternoon. With water lapping at the edge of the pool and light streaming in through the large glass window on one side of the room, the air warm, Toby is thrown back to France for a moment.

Blinking, he lets the chlorine smell drag him back to the present. After passing the folder to Mike, he leans back as well, keeping an eye on Haley. As much as he hates her new toy, its one redeeming feature is that it keeps her entertained.

Closing his eyes, Toby slouches further in the chair and absently listens to Mike leafing through the dossier. He makes the sound of flipping pages seem purposeful—it’s a gift.

“Hey, Bas?” Mike mutters a short while later, and Bas? Bas? That’s—only Haley and Matt get to call him that; it’s a rule. Toby has made painstaking efforts to drill that rule into the rest of his family’s heads. By now, it is mostly respected unless eggnog enters the equation.

Coming from Mike, Toby doesn’t mind as much as he should. Still, it’s the principle of it.

“Don’t call me Bas if you expect a reply.” He keeps his eyes closed. “It’s a rare and special privilege granted to exactly two people in this world.”

For a moment, Mike keeps quiet. Then he shifts. “All right. Toby, then—explain something to me.”

When Toby opens one eye, Mike has set the folder down. His entire body is turned to face Toby, eyes alert. Toby makes a questioning sound.

“What can you tell me about the FARC?” Mike nods at the folder in his lap. “I will read the full briefing, but for now, a short summary could speed up our discussion. I assume it’s all in your head anyway.”

“How much do you know?” Toby sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the deck chair. “I assumed—but maybe not.”

“I’m sure you know what you’re talking about.” Mike’s tone is dry.

“Funny.” Toby shoots him a sideways look, then glances over to make sure that Haley is still having fun. She is: she’s moved from the whirlpool to practicing headers in the pool, to the subdued delight of the elderly swimmer. Toby will interfere when it’s needed, and not a moment sooner. He turns back to Mike. “I’d assumed you were with some other terrorist unit before your placement with us.”

“Organized crime, actually.” Mike lifts one shoulder and succeeds in looking sheepish yet unapologetic; Toby has no idea how he manages. “I’ve heard of the FARC in the context of coca trafficking, and I know they’re a Marxist organization. I also seem to remember there was a peace deal some years ago.”

Throwing up his hands in a little stadium cheer, Toby mimes an enthusiastic game show host. “And the candidate advances to the next round!”

Still seated, Mike clasps his hands to his chest and pretends to take a bow. Damn, Toby likes him, actually likes him.

He lets his hands drop and considers the various pieces of information swimming through his brain. “Right, here’s the gist of it: the FARC—Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, if you want the whole mouthful—is a Marxist organization with roots in the peasant community. Not so much anymore; they had more and more students joining in the eighties, even tried forming a party back then, wanted to become part of the legal political system.” Toby lets his lips quirk. “The attempt went up in flames, so to speak, and it wasn’t just the FARC that was to blame.”

“They weren’t welcome, I imagine?”

“You imagine right.” He shrugs. “It was a lot of back and forth after that, drug trade, a mix of Guerilla-style attacks and classic military activities; they don’t operate in small independent cells like many of the other terrorist organizations. But as you correctly remembered, there was a peace deal eventually, in late 2016—that was the second try, after a failed referendum.”

“Hmm.” Mike shifts, propping one leg up. “So what’s the problem?”

“Not everyone’s happy with how things are going. Some to the point where they’ve picked up arms again—and it’s not unheard of for them to cross over into Ecuador.”

“Which is where we come in.”

“Indeed.” Toby sits up, and Mike’s gaze narrows in on him for just an instant. Then it’s gone. “You ever been to Ecuador?”

Slowly, Mike shakes his head. His attention moves from Toby to the pool, settling on the water without seeming to focus on anything in particular. “Not to Colombia, either. Costa Rica’s the only country in the general vicinity I’ve visited, but that was a long time ago, not really relevant here.”

“Well.” Filing the shift in Mike’s mood away for further consideration, Toby checks on Haley before he continues. “I, for one, have been to Colombia. Potholes the size of a jumbo jet, volcanoes that could erupt at any moment, and long-distance buses with TVs that show nothing but violent movies. Breaking bones and splattering blood are not what I want to see right after wrapping up an op, trust me.”

“Out of curiosity, are there countries you actually like?” Mike’s expression is still clouded, his eyes not quite meeting Toby’s.

“France isn’t so bad,” Toby says. It’s the first thing that came to his mind, and he quickly amends, “If you speak the language and avoid Paris, at least. And not in July and August, because that’s when schools are closed and everything’s crowded and hotels are running animation programs. Line dancing, Mike. Karaoke.”

“What’s wrong with karaoke?” It’s a deceptively innocent question, and Toby is onto Mike, so very onto him.

“Karaoke,” Toby says gravely, leaning forward to make sure Mike is paying attention, “kills kittens.” He pauses for a deliberate moment. “End of discussion.”

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