Page 57 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Write whatever you want; give me a copy; I’ll make the stories match.” The sterile overhead glow sucks the color from Mike’s skin, overpowering what little daylight makes it through the glass door and into his windowless office. As a recent addition, he had to accept whatever was available. It’s a dreary day outside, though, so he’s not missing out on much.

“Write whatever.” Toby shifts his weight, left foot to right. His left knee aches distantly from a run-in with the wall during his rematch with Jesy. She won, but then his head hadn’t been in the game. “Sure, I can do that. Maybe the blast scared you so much that you stepped on the gas while I was still packing up, and I then had to chase you halfway through Ecuador. Finally found you in some remote mountain village, where you’d decided to grow a beard and become a horse breeder. Took me several hours to talk some sense into you.”

Nothing. Not the faintest twitch of a smile. Bare white walls have shown more emotional depth than Mike Redding.

“If you think it’ll pass inspection.” Lifting one shoulder, Mike directs his attention to a stack of papers. He moves them from one side of his desk to the other, carefully lining up the edges.

“No. I actually don’t think it would pass inspection.” Toby takes one step further into the room. “Who’s avoiding who now?”

“Whom.”

“What?”

Mike glances up. “Avoiding whom.”

“Thank you, Agent Grammar.” Toby shoves both hands into his pants because the alternative is punching Mike in the face, and that’s not really the message Toby wants to send. Was Mike this frustrated with him when the tables were turned?

“You’re welcome,” Mike says, blatantly choosing to ignore the sarcasm in Toby’s tone.

Toby opens his mouth for a comeback, then stops himself—clearly, he’s evolved as a person since those days when his marriage dissolved into shouting matches in the kitchen. He exhales through his nose. “Okay, Mike. Can we just not do this right now? We’re both grown-ups; we’ve got another job lined up, and everything else needs to just wait until after.”

Coward, a tiny voice in Toby’s head pipes. It sounds remarkably like Matt, but hey, Matt is wrong more often than he’s right. Toby is planning to deal with this, and he will. He just needs a little more time to figure out what he wants to say, that’s all.

That’s if Mike cares to listen.

“Sure. We can be professionals.” Mike rises from behind his desk, and it might be just the light, but the skin underneath his eyes looks thin and gray. Maybe he hasn’t been sleeping properly either after their beach trip down memory lane. “It’s been working really well for us so far.”

“That’s not what I said.” Don’t punch him.

“Thought you wanted to finish the Ecuador paperwork?” Mike asks. “You know, things to do, places to be?”

Do not punch him.

“As a matter of fact, that is my plan. Thanks for your input. Very helpful.” Toby sends Mike a twisted smile and turns to leave. “Guess I’ll see you for the Singapore briefing.”

“Can’t wait,” Mike mutters.

When Toby glances back over his shoulder, just before he closes the door, Mike is glaring at the stack of papers as if they committed some personal offense. He hasn’t put in a request for a new partner, though.

Maybe that means something—or maybe Toby just wants it to mean something.

X. Singapore, Singapore

X. Chapter One

T he problem with the Singapore op is a severe shortage of information. It’s not the only problem, mind, but the biggest one.All they have is the name of a financial consulting company, an operation base, and a recorded exchange with Monsieur Jeannot that suggests CTS Consulting generates some of its revenue by laundering money for a fund that, in turn, has been identified as a sponsor of the Islamic State.

Toby is not a numbers kind of guy.

When he was married, he was more than happy to leave financial matters in Jada’s capable hands. These days, he pays an obscene amount of money to a tax accountant recommended by the Agency, just so he can save a few hundred bucks on taxes. It’s a net loss, no question about it, but if he had to, Toby would pay double to avoid doing his own taxes, and even more if he could get someone to also sort through the bills and records the tax accountant needs upfront to work his voodoo magic.

The point is, Toby is not a numbers guy. The international guidebook of money laundering is closed to him. He severely hopes that Mike’s previous stint with the organized crime unit means he has a better working knowledge of those issues, but he also hopes it won’t be necessary. They’re only sent in to capture the raw data, after all; the analysis will fall to others.

It’s a morning flight, and after finding Mike at the gate, Toby follows him to their seats. Business Class leaves plenty of room between them, no risk of accidental touching, and also no risk of accidental conversations if Mike’s behavior of late is any indication.

Well, it’ll give Toby more time to polish his plan for accessing the records of one Chan Teck Soon, CTS for short. Polishing is good. Polishing is essential given those records are likely protected by a modern security system and enough hired muscles to toss intruders out on their asses. Right after shooting them in the face.

Walking right in front of Toby, Mike stops in the aisle and glances over his shoulder. “Do you prefer the window?” It’s the first time he’s spoken since they said good morning at the gate.

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