“Absolutely not. Bke would kill me," Ramirez said, shoving equipment into his go-bag without looking up.

  James felt a fsh of frustration mixed with regret at Bke's name. It had been three days since their confrontation in the office, and Bke hadn't spoken a single word to him since. This morning, Bke and Becker had left for Costa Rica without so much as a goodbye.

  "Bke's not here," James cut in sharply. "He left for a mission with his new partner."

  He hadn't meant for the bitterness to seep into his voice, but the thought of Bke and Becker working together, perhaps building the same kind of rapport that he and Bke had, or something even better, twisted like a knife in his gut.

  Ramirez studied him for a moment. "What happened between you two anyway? The temperature dropped about twenty degrees whenever I mentioned your name around him this week."

  James looked away, suddenly finding great interest in a rack of tactical vests. "Nothing. Just the usual."

  "Uh-huh," Ramirez said, clearly not buying it. "Well, whatever 'the usual' is, it's got him pretty wound up."

  James felt a pang of guilt. Had he really hurt Bke that badly by snooping? It was just a photo, not national secrets. Though deep down, he knew it wasn't about the photo itself, but the viotion of trust.

  “Anyway, don’t beat yourself up for it,” Ramirez added. “Bke is often having mood swings. Lack of sleep, old age, you know how it goes. Give it a few days and he’ll be back to normal.”

  James seriously doubted that. Bke didn’t seem like a type of person to let go of grudges that easily.

  “So,” James tried again, “can you take me with you?”

  “Sorry, Jim. Not an option,” Ramirez said firmly, moving to another shelf and picking up spare bnkets.

  "Come on man, I'm going crazy here," James pleaded, following Ramirez around the equipment room like a shadow. "It's just surveilnce. I'll stay in the car the whole time."

  The truth was, James couldn't bear being left behind anymore. Every day that Bke was away with Becker felt like another nail in the coffin of their partnership. Bke was clearly moving on. If he didn’t need him anymore, maybe James could at least be partnered with Ramirez.

  “You’re still on medical leave.”

  "I'm cleared for light duty," James argued. "Doc signed off yesterday."

  "Sitting in a car for six hours in the cold isn't 'light duty.'" Ramirez selected a standard-issue Glock, checked the chamber, and secured it in his holster.

  James stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Ramirez made the mistake of gncing up, only to be met with James' most devastating weapon: the puppy dog eyes. The expression that made him look younger, more vulnerable, and annoyingly hard to refuse.

  "Don't do that," Ramirez warned, quickly looking away. "You know that doesn't work on me."

  It absolutely did work on him, and they both knew it. James titled his head slightly for maximum effect. Ramirez tried to sidestep, but the younger man matched his movement.

  "I'm just asking for one night of surveilnce. I'll stay in the car, follow your orders, and if anything happens, I promise to stay put. I won't even get out to pee. I'll bring a bottle."

  Ramirez grimaced at the imagery. "That’s gross.”

  "I'm desperate." James spread his arms wide. "Look at me. I haven't left the building in three weeks.”

  Ramirez stared at him for a long moment, visibly fighting with his own thoughts. He finally sighed heavily, dropping his head in defeat. "This is a terrible idea. I don't know why I let you talk me into these things."

  James's face lit up with triumph. "You're the best, Ram. Seriously. I'll be so quiet you won't even know I'm there."

  "Yeah, that'll be the day," Ramirez muttered. "Fine. Be ready in twenty minutes. Take warm clothes, the agency's car heater sucks. And for the record, if Bke finds out, I'm throwing you under the bus.”

  "Fair enough," James grinned, already backing toward the door before Ramirez could change his mind. "See you at nine!"

  ***

  Thick, white fluff covered the streets, glistening in the light of the street mps. Though the snowstorm had stopped, the cold wind remained, and the interior of the car offered little protection, even with the heating set to maximum. James, bundled in a coat two sizes too rge, stared at the same gray building for over 4 hours. No sight of the target – the only people they had seen so far were single passers-by going for a night walk.

  James’ leg impatiently bounced against the floor.

  “You got the whole car shaking,” Ramirez muttered, not taking his eyes off the building.

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” After another moment of silence he added, “I think my butt is freezing to the seat.”

  “I warned you.”

  He really did. James just hadn’t expected it to be this bad. Dressing appropriately with the cast proved to be challenging as well.

  “There is an extra bnket in the backseat if you need it.”

  “Nah, I’m good,” James said. He was already covered up to his neck. No amount of extra clothing would make any difference.

  Ramirez lowered his binocurs and checked his watch. "Two more hours before Thompson's team relieves us."

  James groaned, sliding further down in his seat.

  “Hey! You’re the one who begged to be taken here.”

  “I know, I know,” James said quickly, straightening up. “It’s just… I thought it would be more interesting.”

  “Interesting? When are surveilnce ever interesting?”

  “Well,” James smiled. “More interesting than lying in medical.”

  Despite everything, he didn’t regret tagging along. It was better than staying in the agency, wandering around without any clear purpose, being alone with his own thoughts. At least he had someone to talk to.

  "Want to hear a story to pass the time?" James offered for the third time since the beginning of their observation.

  "You and your stories," Ramirez chuckled. "Alright, I'll bite. Got any good ones?"

  James immediately brightened. "Did I ever tell you about the time I was captured behind enemy lines in Vietnam?"

  Ramirez turned to stare at him. "Vietnam? How old do you think you are?"

  "I meant Afghanistan," James corrected smoothly. "So there I was, captured by hostiles. They threw me in this prison camp deep in the jungle—"

  "Afghanistan doesn't have jungles."

  "—I mean, mountains. Deep in the mountains. After weeks of torture, I escaped by fashioning a bow and arrows from bamboo—"

  "Bamboo. In Afghanistan."

  "—from a cot frame. I fought my way through dozens of guards, rescued American POWs, and blew up their munitions depot before hijacking a helicopter to escape."

  The whole scene sounded strangely familiar. Ramirez squinted his eyes. “Wait a minute. Is this the plot of Rambo 2?”

  “What? No, it's not," James protested, though his eyes darted away. "Okay, maybe I borrowed some elements..."

  "You mean all the elements," Ramirez ughed. “Man, why do you even make up those stories? You’ve got enough crazy stunts on your account.”

  James simply shrugged with a smile. “Dunno. Guess I wanted to see who watched cssics.”

  Truth be told, he wasn’t sure himself. He thought sharing military stories was popur among other agents, and he didn’t want to be seen as some kind of outstander. Even if they were ridiculous, at least people would have something to roll their eyes about.

  “You know,” Ramirez added after a moment, “now that I think about it, you talk so much, but I don't actually know anything about you. Where you live, what you were doing before the agency, how you even got here so young. What’s your background?"

  James' smile dimmed slightly. "Nothing interesting.”

  “Come on, you can talk nonsense for hours. Tell me something which is actually true.”

  James stared out the frosted window. "I don't have any real stories worth telling," he said quietly.

  He was saved from further questioning when his companion suddenly stiffened, raising his binocurs.

  “Hold up. I see someone.”

  James leaned forward, squinting through the windshield at the gray building. Sure enough, he could make a blurry silhouette of a man stumbling out of the front door, frantically looking in both directions before making a dash across the road.

  “Is that him?”

  "Seems so." Ramirez confirmed. The man they were after was believed to be the former mafia accountant who'd gone into hiding. Perfect persona for gathering info.

  The man suddenly changed the course, running diagonally towards their direction.

  “?Qué demonios? Was he informed?”

  Ramirez reached for his holster. James mirrored the movement, but realized the gun wasn’t there. Right. Not cleared for a weapon.

  “Running towards your captors doesn’t seem very smart,” James said, frowning.

  “You’re the one to judge,” Ramirez muttered.

  “Wait, he…”

  The accountant wasn't heading for them at all. He was making a beeline for a sedan parked next to their surveilnce vehicle. Before he could reach it, a bck minivan screeched to a halt beside him and three men in bck suits jumped out.

  The sound of silenced gunfire split the air. The accountant's body jerked violently before crumpling to the pavement, a growing puddle of crimson spreading beneath him. Before James could fully process what had happened, two of the men were already dragging the body into the vehicle. The third gunmen turned, scanning the street. His cold eyes locked with Ramirez's through the windshield.

  “?Mierda!” Ramirez shouted, “Get down!”

  They ducked their heads at the same moment the man began shooting. Windshield cracked, but the bullets didn’t break through – yet. Thank God the agency saved money on heating, not on protective equipment. Ramirez immediately reached for the ignition and started the car, stomping on the gas. They drove out of the parking lot with screech of tires, hearing muffled shouts behind them.

  The force of acceleration pressed James back into his seat, but he managed to twist around to look through the rear window. The bck minivan was already on their tail.

  “Uh, we’ve got a problem.”

  Ramirez gnced at the rearview mirror, then took a sharp turn, sending James smming against the passenger door. The minivan was still right behind them, gaining ground with each passing second. Three heavy armed, experienced killers versus a guy with a pistol and his one-handed companion. Their odds were not good.

  Ramirez fumbled with one hand in his jacket, pulling out his phone while keeping his eyes on the road. "Here," he tossed it to James. "Call command. Authorization code Apollo-six."

  James' fingers trembled as he punched in the number.

  “This is agent Collins and Ramirez from Specter Division! We have a situation. Surveilnce compromised, target eliminated by…” he trailed off, gncing at Ramirez, “uh, unknown hostiles?”

  “Tell them to send a backup!”

  “Oh, right. We are being chased by some dangerous folks, so a little help would be appreciated!”

  The voice on the other end was disturbingly calm. “We’re sending the closest response unit to your location. ETA fifteen minutes.”

  Ramirez muttered some colorful Spanish curses under his breath. Evading the hostiles shouldn’t normally be a problem, but they were in unknown territory. Any alley could end up being a dead-end. At the same time, they couldn’t follow the safest, main road, and risk civilian involvement. His eyes darted between streets’ signs.

  “We’re heading west on—” Ramirez started, but was cut off by the violent gunfire.

  The first bullets penetrated the rear window. One of them flew right past James' head, and he instinctively covered himself, though the reaction was deyed. The phone dropped from his hand.

  Ramirez took a sharp turn at the st moment, barely managing to maintain his trajectory in a drift as the wheels lost traction on the frozen surface. The pursuers, unable to execute the quick maneuver, missed the turn, speeding further down the main street.

  “Yeah! We lost them!” James beamed, but his expression dropped when he looked at Ramirez, who was leaning forward with a grimace, clenching his upper arm. Even in the dark, James could see the blood seeping through.

  "Ram! Is it bad? I can—” he awkwardly reached across.

  "Not now!" Ramirez barked, looking at the rearview mirror. "We've got company again."

  James twisted around to see the bck minivan emerging from a side street two blocks behind them.

  “What? How did they—”

  "Shortcut," Ramirez spat. "These guys know the city."

  Another volley of bullets peppered the trunk of their car. One of them must have hit something vital because the vehicle suddenly lurched, and the back end fishtailed wildly.

  "We lost a tire," Ramirez hissed through gritted teeth. His injured arm was now hanging limply at his side, blood dripping onto his p. "I can't... I can't control it much longer."

  The car swerved dangerously, nearly sideswiping a parked truck. Ramirez struggled with the wheel, but his strength was clearly fading.

  “There!” James suddenly shouted, pointing at the construction site to their right.

  Ahead, they could see the skeletal frame of a half built apartment complex, surrounded by chain fencing. A rge gap in the fence revealed where someone had cut their way in, probably local teens looking for a pce to drink.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  "They can't follow with the van,” James said. “We might have a chance on foot."

  Ramirez paled even more. "That's insane. We'd be cornered."

  "Better than being sitting ducks in a car with no tires," James argued. "At least in there we'd have cover, pces to hide."

  The car lurched again as another bullet hit the remaining back tire. The vehicle fishtailed wildly, skidding on the icy road.

  "Fine!" Ramirez shouted, wrestling the steering wheel towards the construction site. "But if we die, I'm bming you in the afterlife!"

  They bumped over the curb and through the gap in the fence. The car's suspension groaned in protest as they bounced over the uneven, debris-strewn ground.

  “There!” James pointed to the space between two twin blocks, almost entirely covered in darkness.

  Ramirez turned, turning off the lights – will buy them time, even if it were a couple of seconds. “Go!” He shouted, already reaching for the door handle before the car fully stopped.

  They sprinted over the corner just as the pursuers appeared on the other side. Ramirez leaned against the brick wall, breathless, clenching his bleeding arm.

  “What now?” he rasped, gncing back at the street.

  “What?”

  "I thought—" Ramirez winced, "—you had a pn."

  James blinked. Him? A pn? Rarely anyone even asked about his opinion, let alone entrusted him with making a decision.

  "Right!" James straightened up, frantically scanning their surroundings. "We can, uh, find cover somewhere?"

  But where? The abandoned construction site didn’t offer much options. Scattered machinery and piles of debris weren't exactly top-tier hiding spots.

  His eyes locked onto a rge dumpster pressed against the wall.

  "How about—"

  "No," Ramirez said firmly, following his gaze with a grimace.

  “It’s a decent hiding spot!” James argued

  "I'd rather die," Ramirez hissed through clenched teeth. "At least... that would be... somewhat honorable."

  “You’re dramatic.”

  “And you always choose… the most putrid pces… imaginable…”

  “That server trip was a one-time event! Well, two-times, actually, but…”

  Ramirez's knees buckled, and he began sliding down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the bricks. James caught him by his good arm and hauled him upright.

  "I'm not letting you die in some alley," he muttered, half-dragging Ramirez towards the unfinished interior of the building. "Come on. Better cover inside than standing out here like targets."