Page 9 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

A close-up of Mauritania’s capital reveals sand-covered roads, the beach and desert joining forces in their attempt to swallow small houses that hardly ever reach higher than two floors, far surpassed by the towers of a mosque. The car’s air conditioning is sputtering tiredly, blowing lukewarm air at them.

“This air-con’s about as sluggish as my brain.” Toby has to raise his voice above the noise of the engine.

Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Mike turns off the temperature control. “Roll the window down.”

Toby complies, lowering his own window to allow a heated breeze inside as Mike does the same on his side. The noise level increases, but the stream of air feels nice on Toby’s face. Like staring right into a hairdryer.

With a sigh, he leans back in the passenger seat and shields his eyes against the low-standing sun, studying Mike’s profile. With black sunglasses, framed by the light of a fading day, Mike looks like an actor straight out of one of those older movies in which men talk about true grit, drive dirty cars, and smoke all day. Quite abruptly, Toby wants.

It’s the lingering effect of the sleeping pills, that’s all. He quells the idea.

Mike glances over. “Better?”

“Better,” Toby confirms, almost shouting to be heard over the wind and the engine. “Explain why customs in Mauritania take just as long as they do back home? Shouldn’t airport security reflect the general level of safety in a country? Seems logical.”

“Depends.” Mike’s grin is a quick flash of white, hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “With a police force that can’t keep a handle on domestic crime, you sure don’t want to import even more trouble.”

He’s got a point; not that Toby will concede it.

“Great,” he shouts instead. “And now we’re stuck rescuing a couple of idiots who think the State Department’s travel warnings are a joke.” He shifts in his seat, the cracked faux leather sticky to the touch. “What part of ‘strongly advise against non-essential travel’ allows room for a sightseeing tour? Tell me, please, because I want to know.”

Mike laughs, an easy sound that catches Toby by surprise. “Let’s assume that they’ve learned the lesson. But feel free to berate them when we get them out.”

If we do.

“Thanks, man. That’s generous.” Toby turns his attention to the various shops that streak by outside the window. Must be the Cinquième Arrondissement, Nouakchott’s shopping district.

After riding in silence for the duration of a block, Toby turns back. “When, or if?”

Mike’s expression hardens. “When,” he says curtly.

“All right.” Toby nods to himself. When. Compared to Mike, Toby’s attempt at optimism still falls short. You always see what’s wrong before you see what’s right. He wishes it didn’t grate, even now.

“Oh, by the way…” Mike’s grip on the wheel, having tightened just briefly, is loose again, and he’s navigating the increasingly dense traffic as if he knows the roads by heart. For all Toby knows, this isn’t Mike’s first time here.

“By the way?” Toby repeats. He props one foot against the dashboard and twists his upper body to face Mike. If it was Haley in his place, Toby would tell her to put her feet on the floor, NOW, young lady, but chances are the airbags in this car are defunct anyway, so if they end up crashing, having his legs folded behind his ears is the least of Toby’s concerns.

You always see what’s wrong.

“By the way” —Mike’s lips twitch— “you make for a convincing blond. I hear they have more fun.”

“I’m a natural, and you know it.”

Mike sends him a sideways look before turning his focus back to the road. Their car stutters over a pothole, no shock absorbers getting in the way of a teeth-rattling jolt.

“I am,” Toby insists. “Didn’t have time to do anything with it before rushing off, and anyway, this doesn’t seem like the kind of operation that needs it. Also.” He’s getting on a roll now. “You’re the dark and tall type, so I understand why you’d be envious of how easy it is for me to quickly change my hair.”

“What’s tall got to do with it?”

Fair question. Not one Toby has a ready answer for.

Fortunately, Mike chooses that moment to swerve into a side road without warning, a move that has Toby gripping the dashboard to avoid getting jerked around—he trusts that seatbelt like he trusts a politician promising free stuff for all, which is to say very little. He’s quite sure that Mike delights in leaving behind a cacophony of outraged honking. Freak.

“Give me a heart attack,” Toby mutters. “Sure, just go right ahead. Be my guest.”

Mike laughs at him. Laughs. “You didn’t become an agent to drive five miles under the speed limit, Brown.”

“Do you trust the brakes of this car?”

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