Troubled Waters
He's finally gotten the Charger's engine to click over again when he gets the call. The number's familiar. What he hears, not so much. There's so much static on the line to begin with, he'd be forgiven for thinking it's a crank, or a warning.
"Fi?"
"Michael ... eed help--" What comes next is lost to another burst of white noise. Michael remains sitting, stock still at the wheel, his every scrap of attention focused on the cacophony of sound in his ear. More static.
"Fiona? Fiona--"
" ... earborn, Michigan ... Michael, please ... "
The line goes dead, bringing with it a host of complex considerations for the man on the other end.
There's a good reason spies work alone. When a partner gets into trouble, they can't call on you for help. That's not what you're trained to do. You can't rely on someone else, you have to think for yourself, and above all, you never, ever, ever call your partner and tell them you need them. If that ever happens, you can guarantee that it's a call made under duress, or it's a warning to do the exact opposite. Never listen to a spy when they ask for help.
* * *
"Mikey, you know this is a bad idea."
"Yeah, Sam, I know."
"You're seriously driving all the way to Michigan?"
Michael glances over at his friend briefly before he looks back at the contents of his trunk. Sam's gaze follows his, taking stock of the inventory. "Point taken. Do you need me to run interference here?"
The trunk lid closes with a satisfying thunk. "If you could."
"You got it, buddy. Although you know you still owe me-- that is, Ms. Reynolds-- for that Buick. Do you know what I'm going through right now?"
He's never going to live that down. Ever. "I know, Sam."
"You could at least spring for some beer. If you're gonna skip town, I need me some supplies."
Of course. Michael reaches into a jeans pocket and fishes out a few twenties, which Sam takes gladly from his proffered hand, responding with his familiar rakish grin. "And, uh, you know, Ms. Reynolds wouldn't say no to a friendly contribution to smooth over those--"
"Sam." It's a warning-- albeit a friendly one-- for his friend not to push his luck.
"Alright, alright." The older man's hands lift in companiable surrender, before he stuffs the cash into his shirt pocket. "Got it."
Michael moves to open the driver's side door. "And Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep an eye on Mom for me."
There's a brief pause and an exchanged look, though Michael's eyes are somewhat shielded behind those perpetual amber sunglasses.
"Not a problem, Mike."
A nod of thanks, and he disappears from view. A moment later, the black Charger's engine rumbles to life and both the car and its driver glide away.
* * *
Florida is as renowned for its downpours as it is for its beaches, and several miles out of Miami is when one of those legendary downpours begins sluicing along the I-75 corridor. Water pools on the hot pavement, and the Charger sends up its own sprays of water as it barrels through the rain, wipers on full speed. Michael's prepared for any number of things-- he's not being tailed, at least not yet-- but his vigilance is constant, both in his rear-view mirror and ahead of him. In his head, he keeps coming back to the frantic undertone to Fiona's call, and he tries to divine the possible meaning. Everything about this tells him he should stay the hell away; it's the logical choice, the only one that makes sense. And yet, here he is, seriously heading to another state to perform a personal extraction.
He's getting too involved, he knows, and Sam tried to say that in his usual, sort-of-subtle way. Another torrent of water pools across the freeway ahead of him, and he slows a little, aware of the risk of hydroplaning in this kind of weather. The muscle car plunges through the water, once more sending vast wet plumes up into the air.
And that's when the world quite literally drops out from under him and his car, and sends them both into freefall.
Training to become a spy is about learning how to override your basic instincts-- namely the fight or flight mechanism. You have to learn when to fight and when to fly, and when to just stay put. When you're in a situation you can't control, you have to assess your options before you take any action whatsoever. If you can run, you run, because you can live to try another day. Fighting is usually a last-ditch option, mainly because the moment bullets start flying, you're fighting just to keep breathing long enough to run away. Staying put is sometimes the only safe thing to do because it's the best way to learn what's going on, but it usually involves a lot of creative lying to keep yourself alive.
And in some rarer cases, you have to stay put because your vehicle is airborne, and you have no idea what the hell is going on.
Somewhere in Dearborn, Michigan, just outside of Finley Towers, there's a change in the air pressure; as though one is in an airplane rapidly gaining altitude.
And a moment later, a large classic 1973 black Dodge Charger materialises out of nowhere approximately twenty feet up in the air and drops like a rock to the pavement.
"Fi?"
"Michael ... eed help--" What comes next is lost to another burst of white noise. Michael remains sitting, stock still at the wheel, his every scrap of attention focused on the cacophony of sound in his ear. More static.
"Fiona? Fiona--"
" ... earborn, Michigan ... Michael, please ... "
The line goes dead, bringing with it a host of complex considerations for the man on the other end.
There's a good reason spies work alone. When a partner gets into trouble, they can't call on you for help. That's not what you're trained to do. You can't rely on someone else, you have to think for yourself, and above all, you never, ever, ever call your partner and tell them you need them. If that ever happens, you can guarantee that it's a call made under duress, or it's a warning to do the exact opposite. Never listen to a spy when they ask for help.
* * *
"Mikey, you know this is a bad idea."
"Yeah, Sam, I know."
"You're seriously driving all the way to Michigan?"
Michael glances over at his friend briefly before he looks back at the contents of his trunk. Sam's gaze follows his, taking stock of the inventory. "Point taken. Do you need me to run interference here?"
The trunk lid closes with a satisfying thunk. "If you could."
"You got it, buddy. Although you know you still owe me-- that is, Ms. Reynolds-- for that Buick. Do you know what I'm going through right now?"
He's never going to live that down. Ever. "I know, Sam."
"You could at least spring for some beer. If you're gonna skip town, I need me some supplies."
Of course. Michael reaches into a jeans pocket and fishes out a few twenties, which Sam takes gladly from his proffered hand, responding with his familiar rakish grin. "And, uh, you know, Ms. Reynolds wouldn't say no to a friendly contribution to smooth over those--"
"Sam." It's a warning-- albeit a friendly one-- for his friend not to push his luck.
"Alright, alright." The older man's hands lift in companiable surrender, before he stuffs the cash into his shirt pocket. "Got it."
Michael moves to open the driver's side door. "And Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep an eye on Mom for me."
There's a brief pause and an exchanged look, though Michael's eyes are somewhat shielded behind those perpetual amber sunglasses.
"Not a problem, Mike."
A nod of thanks, and he disappears from view. A moment later, the black Charger's engine rumbles to life and both the car and its driver glide away.
* * *
Florida is as renowned for its downpours as it is for its beaches, and several miles out of Miami is when one of those legendary downpours begins sluicing along the I-75 corridor. Water pools on the hot pavement, and the Charger sends up its own sprays of water as it barrels through the rain, wipers on full speed. Michael's prepared for any number of things-- he's not being tailed, at least not yet-- but his vigilance is constant, both in his rear-view mirror and ahead of him. In his head, he keeps coming back to the frantic undertone to Fiona's call, and he tries to divine the possible meaning. Everything about this tells him he should stay the hell away; it's the logical choice, the only one that makes sense. And yet, here he is, seriously heading to another state to perform a personal extraction.
He's getting too involved, he knows, and Sam tried to say that in his usual, sort-of-subtle way. Another torrent of water pools across the freeway ahead of him, and he slows a little, aware of the risk of hydroplaning in this kind of weather. The muscle car plunges through the water, once more sending vast wet plumes up into the air.
And that's when the world quite literally drops out from under him and his car, and sends them both into freefall.
Training to become a spy is about learning how to override your basic instincts-- namely the fight or flight mechanism. You have to learn when to fight and when to fly, and when to just stay put. When you're in a situation you can't control, you have to assess your options before you take any action whatsoever. If you can run, you run, because you can live to try another day. Fighting is usually a last-ditch option, mainly because the moment bullets start flying, you're fighting just to keep breathing long enough to run away. Staying put is sometimes the only safe thing to do because it's the best way to learn what's going on, but it usually involves a lot of creative lying to keep yourself alive.
And in some rarer cases, you have to stay put because your vehicle is airborne, and you have no idea what the hell is going on.
Somewhere in Dearborn, Michigan, just outside of Finley Towers, there's a change in the air pressure; as though one is in an airplane rapidly gaining altitude.
And a moment later, a large classic 1973 black Dodge Charger materialises out of nowhere approximately twenty feet up in the air and drops like a rock to the pavement.