Page 65 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Not the time.” There’s a punching kind of sound on Mike’s end, might be his fist meeting the inner wall of the van, maybe. “You are about ten seconds from the alarm being raised. Get the fuck out.”

Toby hesitates. Then he closes his eyes, counting to five before he opens them again. If he aborts now, all their prep work was for nothing; they won’t get another chance like this.

“Okay,” he says calmly. His fingers are sure on the keyboard, the keys clacking quietly. “The data’s about to start uploading, gimme a moment to establish the connection to your computer.”

“Are you fucking listening? They noticed. Get out.”

“I made a pre-selection: no system files, no sound, no videos. Estimate two minutes.” Toby stops typing for a second, checking the numbers on the screen. All clear, everything set in motion because that’s why Liu sent him in: to get the job done. Glancing at the camera positioned just outside the office, Toby pushes away all thoughts of approaching disaster. “Confirm the connection, Mike.”

“Fuck the op,” Mike hisses.

“Confirm the connection.”

“They’re on their way. How can I—” The sound of rapid mouse clicking travels down the line. Mike isn’t half-bad with a computer, Toby learned as much, but it isn’t Mike’s specialty. He will ensure the data travels on, though, and that’s what matters. “Can I freeze the elevators?”

“No.” Toby flattens both palms on the table, glaring at the camera lens. “Confirm the fucking connection. I’m not moving until this upload is complete.”

“You’re a suicidal bastard,” Mike barks, and that’s rich, coming from him. At least he finally, finally listened because the upload has started. They’re both quiet for a moment before Mike says, much softer now, “There’s nothing I can do from here?”

“No, there isn’t.” Toby lets his own voice go soft in response, sinking into Chan’s desk chair. He swivels it in a half-turn and back, the spin leaving him slightly wobbly even though his stomach has withstood bigger challenges. He swallows against the sense of unease and Jesus, this might be it: the end of the rope. If Ken and his hired hands find Toby in here, he’ll be unarmed—the building comes equipped with a metal detector, so he had to leave his gun behind.

Well, hey. He wasn’t under any illusions concerning the mortality rate in his chosen profession.

Fuck.

Toby clears his throat. He glances at the camera and away again, staring at the countdown of files on the screen. His voice sounds raw to his own ears. “You know, you really could have given me a chance to explain, last night.” He can hear Mike’s inhalation, so he continues quickly. “No, let me fucking have this, okay? Yes, I asked Liu for a new partner because—shut up. Because I want—because I thought it would be nice to have dinner sometime. You and me.” Toby runs a hand through his hair, messing it up out of its slick look. He’s sweating through the dress shirt, the formal jacket stifling around his shoulders. Flicking the camera in the hallway a look, he takes an unsteady breath. “I was thinking a table for two at the window would be good, maybe with a candle on it? I mean, why the fuck not, right? Nothing wrong with that.” He exhales, inhales. The air tastes hot and dry, but maybe it’s just Toby’s imagination. “Doesn’t matter if anyone sees us. Not if we’re no longer field partners, you know?”

For a long moment, his only response is silence. Then Mike asks, so quiet that Toby has to strain his ears, “Like a date?”

“We make a good team, but that’s not...” Despite the air condition that cools the room, Toby feels overheated, his shirt too itchy and tight at the collar. “There are more important things than work, right? And I want this—you. I want you. But not like this. Not sneaking around like it’s some dirty little secret. So, yeah.” He pauses. “Exactly like a date.” Eyes flicking to the computer, Toby sees that the upload is almost done—five files left to go, three, one, done. He rapidly closes program windows and removes the USB stick, searching the office for a good place to hide it.

“Toilets,” Mike says roughly. “Down the corridor.”

Toby shuts the computer down and arranges the keyboard into its original position. They’ll know that someone was in here, of course; the log of the voice authentication program proves as much. They don’t need to know his motivation, though.

On his way out, Toby pulls a few drawers open, swiping books off a shelf. “How much longer?”

“A minute, maybe two. There’s four: Ken and three guards. Armed, standard issue guns.” Mike sounds uneven, his voice frayed in a way Toby’s heard only twice—the first time when they found Paul and Nathan in that windowless room at Nouakchott’s port; the second time when Mike talked about his parents. This is number three. Toby can’t wrap his mind around that while their plan explodes around him.

He slips into the restroom just as he hears the elevator doors ding.

Five long steps to the closest toilet stall, six and he’s inside. He drops the USB stick, flushes even though the sound could alert Ken and cronies. Priorities, though. This is what Toby trained for, and destroying all links to the Agency when he’s about to get caught is first on the list. Next is making a clean getaway—unfortunately, the windows are not meant to be opened and it would be a lethal number of floors down anyway, so that option is out. The large air duct that is always readily available in movies is nowhere in sight, so it’s either hiding in here or trying to twist the element of surprise to his advantage.

“They’re on their way into Chan’s office. One stayed behind at the elevator.” Mike sounds as if he’s about to smash something. Hopefully, the van was built to withstand abuse. “What’s going on? Why are there no fucking cameras in the restroom?”

“It’s called labor law, Mike.” In passing, Toby stuffs his jacket into a trashcan. It’ll only hinder his range of motion. “Employees’ right to privacy—ring a bell?”

“I don’t fucking care,” Mike grits out. “All I care about is you.”

Toby’s heart skips a heavy beat. He doesn’t have time for this, though. Not now.

“Listen.” He approaches the exit, voice lowered to a whisper. “I was planning to do it myself, but it’s up to you now to transfer the data to the Agency. There’s a program on the USB stick that’s already plugged in. It’s called virus.exe and isn’t a virus. Run it. You got something to write?”

“Toby—”

“Do you have something to write?” The moment Toby uses the door handle, he’ll be spotted. No chance to inch the door open for a quick assessment.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “I do.”

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