Title: Spy vs. Spy
Featuring: Desade
Date: 6/28-6/29
Location: Singapore/Malaysia (Culture Shock vs. Devin Shakur)

Tuesday, June 28, 2011 8:33 PM Singapore Standard Time
Kulai, Malaysia
Approximately one hour northwest of Singapore.

Malcolm Girard smiled thinly, nodding in mute thanks as he accepted the warm rice bowl. The patroness of the tiny, hole-in-a-wall eatery was a lady who could have been anywhere between fifty and a hundred and fifty whose eyes only emerged from a mass of wrinkles when she smiled, which did not occur very often at all. Malcolm cradled the cracked pottery against his chest to protect it from the torrential downpour, ducking low as he stepped onto the patio. Water flowed in rivulets off the corner of the roof, splattering onto the cobblestone street.

His target was Kiet Nguyen, and the big man at Nguyen's side was actually named Jawa. He eyed Malcolm suspiciously as he hobbled to a central table, putting his back to the lot of them. It was a necessary, if uncomfortable, step; to face them would have put Girard's white face in their view all night, and even this close to the city, that was a chance he couldn't take.

Nguyen ran guns (and, some said, slaves) out of Singapore and Hong Kong, and it had taken Malcolm the better part of three weeks to track down just which shit village he'd set up shop in, and another five days to learn the man's routine. Girard was nothing if not patient, however -- if things did not go well tonight, he'd likely just let Nguyen leave unhindered, if only to defray suspicion when the time finally came to drop the hammer.

So he quietly shoveled his spicy fried rice into his mouth, flipping casually through yesterday's issue of The Straits Times by the pitiful light of the inn. He listened to the raindrops fall outside, his hand going to the thumb drive he wore as a medallion, as if by rote. Stick to the job, he thought. Emotion only gets in the way. He sighed, tilting his head down slightly to scratch at his neck and look over his shoulder to the table of bad men, his eyes hardening. Doing the work made it easier to focus.

He strained to here what they were saying, but his Malay was sketchy at best, and he could only be sure that they were talking about the ass of one of the serving girls. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to fight off a stress headache. The bowl wobbled as he set it down, tossing his chopsticks inside. Girard pushed away from the table, the legs of the chair scrubbing along the floor. The sound drew the table's attention, and he was pretty sure they were saying something foul. So he took it as an opportunity.

"Excuse me?" he asked in English, putting a touch of a Greek accent in his words. "Did you say something to me?"

The big bruiser stood, making a show of the noise. His fellows chuckled, expecting Malcolm to back down once he saw the size of the tattooed bruiser. To be fair, Jawa was probably close to a foot taller than he was, with muscles that had muscles of their own and a sleeve of tattoos, and Girard's thin (he might go so far as to say "svelte") body and graying hair gave a certain impression. As the man swaggered over, arms swinging like an ape's, Mal was pretty sure he could take him.

But, boy, it was going to hurt.

Girard straightened, turning subtly to the side to present a smaller target to the oncoming freight train, his hand coming up defensively. "Well, c'mon, you ugly old brute," he taunted. "I haven't got all day."

The physical approach was one Malcolm rarely favored. If he were ten years younger, it would have been an easier fight. Maybe if it weren't such a tight space, he could have used his longer limbs to keep the shorter, more compact man away from him.

All of those were possibilities, certainly, but what truly set the brawl against him was the serving girl, who came a touch too close to him. The tall woman had a bowl of piping hot rice in each hand, and when her slippered foot got briefly tangled with Malcolm's, she struggled to keep both bowls from going flying. It was a losing battle, however, and one clattered across the hard ground. He was more concerned about the waitress herself, as she toppled over as well, landing with a heavy thud, her head striking the floor. He bent to makes sure she was all right, but she'd already rolled to her side, murmuring "Saya minta maaf" quietly. Her tone made it appear to be an apology, even if Malcolm didn't understand the words.

Girard's bout of concern couldn't have lasted more than two seconds, but when he turned back, Jawa caught him flatfooted, burying a fist in Malcolm's stomach, followed by a short, snapping uppercut that almost put his lights out. He stumbled back on spaghetti legs, almost falling over the serving girl again, on her hands and knees as she tried to clean up her mess.

In the end, he was just glad that the table he staggered into was unoccupied, or things might have escalated to an all-out bar fight. He fell to one knee, touching his knuckles to his jaw. The poor waitress slid to his side, reaching out with the rag she'd been using to wipe up with. "Sara minta maaf," she said again, voice thick with fearful tears. "Izinkan saya membantu anda..."

"Uh, saya... saya tidak bercakap melayu," he said, struggling with the unfamiliar words. He hoped his syntax for "I don't speak Malay" was right, but the woman nodded demurely anyway.

He slapped his palm onto the tabletop, narrowing his eyes at the behemoth. Jawa had his arms spread, head back in a toothy grin. Girard's jaw set, upper lip curling. No one who knew both Malcolm Girard and Amy Campbell would question where his daughter got her legendary temper. "I've had just about enough of--"

A small hand rested on his shoulder, a whispery voice near his ear. "No, sir," the serving girl pleaded in high-pitched, stilted English. "You cannot do this thing."

"Maybe not," he admitted, standing with something of a grunt. "But I'm bound to try."

She rose with him. "He is... he is..." She trailed off, searching for the right words.

He'd never know how he sensed it, the featherlight touch at his neck, but he did, his hand clamping down on the woman's. A small pair of fingernail scissors were gripped in the server's right hand, and her motion had bared her forearm to the elbow. He caught a glimpse of a small red tattoo (the Greek Alpha) standing out against the milky skin, and he almost laughed. Only one woman could have gotten this close. "I didn't know you spoke Malay," he murmured, more than a bit impressed.

Alexandra Pierce never broke character, not even for a triumphant grin. "Anda memukul aku," she whimpered breathlessly, crumbling to her knees as tears sprang to life in her eyes. You beat me.

Malcolm didn't have to look around the room to know he'd suddenly become the bad guy. He released her wrist immediately, raising both hands. She cradled her arm against herself (probably to hide the evidence), her shining. The old crone who'd served him pushed out of the kitchen, brandishing a wooden spoon. "All right!" he said. "I'm leaving! I know when I'm beat."

Nguyen moved for the first time, gesturing to his men to have the woman tended to. "Tell them I am going peacefully," Malcolm asked her.

It took a moment for Alex to say anything (he figured she was making sure no one else spoke English), and when she did, the horrified look on her face made him believe she wasn't translating him properly. He leveled a glare on the disguised woman who was allowing her wrist to be examined gingerly, and a growl built in his chest. "Je peux aller maintenant," he said, switching to French to be sure Alex would be the only one who understood. "Vous je verrez demain."

This isn't the end. I will see you in the very near future.

Pierce didn't answer, leaning back in a wince that allowed her to affix him with a dead-eyed stare. Malcolm Girard hadn't backed away from a physical confrontation with the massive, tattooed bodyguard. He hadn't shied away from his investigation of Kiet Nguyen, even given the man's fearsome reputation.

Still, Malcolm found his steps moving faster than usual as he moved away from that little restaurant, and he doubted it was because of the rain.

---

Malcolm took the rickety steps two at a time, moving swiftly to the small room he'd rented. It was just a bed and a two-drawer dresser, and there was hardly room in it for just those things, a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. He checked the thread he'd lain across the dresser for evidence it had been disturbed, and, finding none, tugged it open to yank out an armful of clothes. He was rattled, he knew, but he wasn't prepared to give up the Golgotha thumb drive and there was little chance Alex was there negotiate with him. The only reason he wasn't dead in that hovel was because of his daughter, and he found that thought rankled him.

When he removed his carefully rolled socks, Malcolm found a postcard, its note in Portuguese, written in a looping, almost girlish script. "Sempre vai encontrá-lo," it read.

I will always find you.

Not the romantic message it appeared to be. Suddenly, packing seemed markedly less important, and Girard abandoned the endeavor entirely, pounding back down the steps empty-handed. He hopped the railing, his loafers kicking up water from a puddle as he hurried across the street. He dug a key out of his pocket for the Honda he'd rented for a song, but stopped himself before he hit the unlock button on the key fob.

Tucked under the windshield wiper was a thin, rectangular note, like a parking ticket, except the message was in German, printed in narrow, tight lettering, the kind that could be mistaken for a man's handwriting. "Laufen nicht," it warned.

Don't run.

Malcolm blew out a heavy sigh, attempting to tamp down the instinctive panic. This was what Alex did, he reminded himself. What she used to do, at least. She unnerved people. Forced them to make a mistake, to run a maze of her own creation. It used to be that would end with her victim's death, and while Malcolm didn't believe Alex would go that far, he had to admit there was a lot she could do that wouldn't actually kill him.

He needed to remain calm, to think clearly, and to plan ahead. Alexandra was perhaps the ultimate longterm planner. She'd set things up to put him on the run if her attempt to steal the thumb drive at the restaurant failed. Why, though? Why let him know she knew where he was staying, what he was driving?

Simple: she was buying time to catch up. She'd need to extricate herself from Nguyen and his men safely, and if Malcolm could go back to his room or his car, he could have barricaded himself in or simply run away. So she had some means of transportation, and keeping him on foot would allow her to close the distance.

So Malcolm needed to do something she wouldn't predict. He jogged south a couple of blocks, following the slope of the road, until he came upon a knickknack curio with a neon FedEx logo in the window. He slipped through the door, reaching up to pinch the bell over the door to keep it quiet.

"Hello," he greeted the boy behind the counter, testing what little Malay he knew. "Adakah anda bercakap inggeris?" he asked, then it repeated his question in his native tongue. "Do you speak English?"

The boy shook his head, banging a palm against the wall. Girard tensed, suddenly and irrationally fearful that Alex would rappel in from the ceiling or something.

Instead, he heard a quiet groan, and an old woman shambled out from behind the curtain, leaning heavily on her walker. Like the woman at the restaurant, she was in that indefinable age bracket, her silvery hair piled haphazardly atop her head like a bird's nest, bulbous nose marred with a wart that would have done the Wicked Witch of the West proud. She engaged on a hushed conversation with the boy, and Malcolm immediately took her to be the grandmother. Even so, her grandson had to point Girard out twice, and the old woman snapped something after the second time, pointing urgently to the back. The boy disappeared there momentarily, returning with a pair of frankly ancient bifocals. His grandmother struggled with them, but irritable shoved the teen away when he tried to help. "Hilang!" she bade, shuffling to the shop's only customer.

"Hello," Malcolm said as she neared. He picked up a wicker elephant disinterestedly.

"M-may I h-help?" the old woman wheezed.

"I'm looking for a souvenir for my son," he explained. "Can you ship directly to America?"

"Yes, yes. I get pricings."

She turned to hobble away, and Malcolm slipped off his necklace. Just then, he heard the high-pitched rumble of a motorcycle's engine whip by, and he drifted to the window to get a better look.

It was a small thing, the kind he would have called a "rice rocket" if he were feeling particularly racist, black with red piping. The bike drifted to a halt up the street, near where his car still sat, and its rider kept out of the light, but cast a lean shadow and he caught a brief glimpse of red hair as the helmet came off.

Girard turned, his eyebrows coming up. If that was Alexandra, he didn't have long before she discovered he'd found her notes and started looking for alternative routes he might have taken.

"Can we... I'm sorry, ma'am." He gave the old woman a small, apologetic smile. "Do you mind if we hurry a bit? Supposed to meet a lady, you know."

"Ah, I see," the proprietress said, shambling back to the counter. "We get you on the way soon."

She wasn't lying. It took less than ten minutes for him to complete the purchase, a cheap wooden elephant which he tucked an invaluable thumb drive into while the woman rummaged through packing material. If everything went well, it would wend its way back to America in the morning, far from the hands of Alexandra Pierce, provided he gave her no reason to go looking in the first place.

When he left as the shop's last customer of the evening, Girard had a spring in his step and a smile on his lips -- a smirk that only stretched when he saw no sign of Alexandra or her bike. Still, he couldn't help but tense as he stepped into the lobby of hid hotel. Calling it a "lobby" at all might have been an overstatement, but Malcolm was feeling charitable once he didn't get ambushed the moment he stepped inside. in fact, found only the pretty blond exchange student (far too petite to be Alex, and old enough that he didn't feel guilty having impure thoughts about her).

"Missy, you're still here?" he said, flashing the grin he knew made girls her age (girls almost any age) weak in the knees. "I thought certainly you'd have reclaimed your spot amongst the Heavenly Host by now "

Missy laughed, as she often did when he greeted her. "Not yet, Mr. Watson," she said.

He stopped at the counter, snatching up a tiny nub of a pencil. "Do you have some paper, dear?" She presented some wordlessly, and he smiled, letting their hands touch as he accepted it. "In a little while, a woman is going to come in here asking for me. No matter who she is, no matter what she tells you, I want you to make sure to give her this note."

She smiled as he scrawled across the paper in a language unfamiliar to her. "Is this an invitation to a tryst?" she whispered--he couldn't decide if her accent was from Manchester or Liverpool.

He chuckled richly, folding the paper in half. "Something like that," he said, sliding it across the desk. "Remember: give this to her no matter what she says."

If she questioned how he could leave a note to a woman he couldn't properly describe, she showed no sign of it, taking the folded paper in both hands. "Of course, sir," she said.

"Excellent!" He nearly chirped it. "Then I must be off. Missy, always a pleasure." She beamed at the compliment.

Then he was gone, off into the night like the thief that he was, just the note left behind. It was terse, printed in Swedish in a neat, fine hand. "Jag är inte igång," it read. "Klockan nio på Den Zoologiska Trädgården. Vi kommer att mata ankor som förr."

I am not running. Nine o'clock at the Zoological Garden. We will feed the ducks, like old times.

---

8:47 AM local time.
The Singapore Zoological Gardens

Alexandra Pierce wasn't surprised to find Malcolm Girard already waiting for her when she walked up the path to the duckpond some thirteen minutes before the meeting time he'd set. When you're a spy, you never want to be the second person to a meeting with a potentially hostile enemy. Giving the opposition time to set up the battleground, and you're liable to face all manner of nasty surprises when you get there.

Just this once, however, Alex wasn't all that concerned about gaining the advantage. She even intentionally kicked a stone, to be sure he heard her coming.

Malcolm sat on a long, green bench, tossing bits of stale bread to a gathering of mallards. "I wondered whether you'd just shoot me," he said, not turning.

"I may still." Alex sat about as far away from him as she could. "I need that database, Mal."

"Getting right down to it, I see."

She smiled to the side. "I thought it wise. History shows you're slightly more likely to be the one to attack."

His lips drooped in a frown, but he couldn't dispute the accusation. "You know I didn't bring it with me."

"Just like I know you can get it."

"I could. But I won't." He ripped a slice of bread in half, using the two pieces to separate the flock. "I can't," he amended.

"Why not?" Alex refused to believe she'd so badly misjudged him. "I know you have skeletons in those files, but I do, too, Mal. I'm willing to face mine. The Order is gone, but Bronze will never stop coming. Nothing could be worth letting that man pervert what we used to believe in."

He brushed off his hands, leaning forward onto his elbows. His chuckle was quiet and rich--and somewhat surprising.

"They're coming after your little girl, Malcolm. Even as we sit here, there are plots out there to hurt her, to humiliate her."

"I know there are," he murmured.

Pierce's temper was up, angry on Amy's behalf. "And yet you're still just sitting there. What kind of father abandons his only child because he's too cowardly to face his sins?"

"A father willing to shoulder all of his sins, and those of everyone closest to her, in order to let his daughter live as simply as she should. Maybe one protecting people more innocent than even Amy -- than even your Quinn," he said. "You've helped turn both our girls into something else, Alexandra, and I've seen what those files contain. You need me to have the database as much as Amy does. There's no freeing you of this, so don't dare tell me releasing it to you would allow you two any delusion of freedom. you'll continue on as you do until she can't live it anymore. Until she can't live with herself anymore. You're all better off -- you, Amy, Quinn, even Kathryn -- with Golgotha in my hands."

"Who made you God?" she demanded. "If took me two months to find you, Malcolm. Two months. Do you think anyone else would have that kind of patience that they'd last that long? Do you think Bronze is just going to let you have it? He will keep coming, and his men will come for Amy in the hopes of drawing you out of hiding."

"There has to be another way, Alexandra."

"Well, we could all drive off a bridge."

"Oh, be serious, would you?"

"I am being serious. I admit I've made my fair share of mistakes, Mal. I've dragged Quinn and Amy into battles they had no business being a part of, but they were battles with them. With Bronze and Cozen and people who have no compunctions against hurting anyone who gets in their way."

She leaned back, draping one arm over the back of the bench. "And you're right -- they won't stop coming. You and I... we've made enough enemies for several lifetimes. But I can face down one man. I can beat one man. But a whole lumbering apparatus, of analysts and assassins and intelligence and resources?" She shook her head gently. "I'll fail. I'll fail, and someone will die."

"Then stop fighting! Haven't you done enough? You know you can never reset the scales -- why must you keep trying?"

"Because I love the look on Amy's face when I've helped someone. Because I can't let the organization I have bled and cried and worked for be turned into a plaything for a man I've never even met. But mostly because..." She folded her hands, staring down at the concrete walk for a moment. "Because I'm the only one who can." A wry chuckle spilled from her lips. "Besides, as often as not, Amy's involved before I am, and have you ever tried to get her to give up on something she believes in? Like a dog with a bone."

"How do you expect to--" Girard almost asked the question, but he cut himself off before he could finish it, sitting back heavily. "She's gone without a father before."

Alex's move was so quick, it startled several of the birds. She pounded her fist into the bench, growling. "That was before. Before she knew she had one. Before she started to trust you. It's different now. She's taking your betrayal hard, Malcolm. You're just another Order scumbag now, so congratulations."

"It's just not that simple. You know that."

"It never is, Malcolm. Trust me. But... she deserves better. If there's something going on, something you didn't tell us, she might have understood. And she might still understand. But you've got to tell me what you're hiding right here, right now, or I'm taking that thumb drive off you no matter what it takes. What is on Golgotha that you don't want to get out? Who are you protecting?"

"The world doesn't end at your doorstep, Alexandra."

"The world is not safer with that man in charge of an organization like the Order."

"Some people are."

"Who?" Pierce demanded. "Who, Malcolm? Bronze? Fucking Scratch? Or is it you that's better off? Tell me this isn't about some high-price consulting job."

Girard's left hand balled into a fist, the same gesture Alex had seen from his daughter dozens of times. "Do you really think me so selfish?" he asked.

"Honestly, I don't know what to think. You attacked me--"

"--I didn't have time to negotiate with you."

"You didn't even try!" she hissed. "You used me -- you used your daughter -- to steal the damn thing in the first place, and the only thanks you gave came at the business end of a stun gun."

He lifted his stormy gaze to Pierce, heaving his last scrap of bread with more force than was necessary. "You don't get to lecture me about using my daughter. When last I checked, Quinn--"

"It's not the same," Alex cut in. "I would never betray her trust."

His eyebrows beetled. "Don't make me quote chapter and verse of what you have done to that girl."

That seemed to silence her, hands clasped together, head bowed. Her hair hung in her face. When she spoke again, it was a barely audible whisper. "I'm trying to understand, Malcolm. You have to know how bad these people are."

"I do, but--"

"They drugged her, you know."

"What?" Girard seemed genuinely surprised by thus.

"Yeah. They slipped something into her water. Kathryn's, too. They... the drugs loosened their inhibitions. They..." Her head didn't lift, focused on the thumbnail she worried the edge of. "There's a video, who knows what else." Finally, she slid her eyes to the side. "I haven't looked at it."

"I... Alex, I had no idea. Is she--"

"She pretends she's okay when I'm around. But... sometimes, I catch a glimpse of it. She blames herself. Says she wouldn't have done it if she didn't want to." She heaved a sigh. "I just cannot understand why you'd protect these people over your own child."

"Alex, don't you see?" he said softly. "I am protecting my child."

"We could break their back. The really dangerous ones would have the proper authorities after them, and the rest... well, there'd be some reprisals, but Amy and I can handle--"

"I'm not talking about..." Malcolm cut himself off and sighed. "Amy grew up with three brothers--"

"All at least a decade older than her, from her father's first marriage," Alex said. "You're too young to have--"

"She has a fourth. Much younger, not related to the father who raised her -- or to her mother, for that matter," Girard paused and sighed deeply, already regretting his words. "And according to you, Bronze is only making it easier to keep all of this quiet."

Pierce's brows knitted together. "Malcolm, what are you--"

"You just informed me that there is a video of Kathryn Shaw and my daughter in bed. If you'll recall, she also has a son, Alex."

"Yes, Cash. The one she used to pretend didn't exist."

He chuckled. "The name just her idea of a joke. His given name is Jonathan, for my grandfather."

Alex leaned back in the bench, her jaw hanging open in shock. "Neither of you have ever said anything."

"If she knows I'm his father, she's never told me."

"But you just said you he's named for your grandfather..."

"I was there as a friend. She was terrified of you -- we all were. I was in from Budapest, and she begged me to accompany her. I can never say no to that woman."

"Not a lot of men can." Pierce smiled despite herself. "And this information is in Golgotha?"

"In my file," he nodded. "As a favor, Kieran made certain that my death benefits -- and anyone listed as a recipient -- were kept very, very secure. Particularly when you began running in the same circles as Amy." Malcolm chuckled, shaking his head. "To think, we actually worried you would have used him as a tool against me if you were to discover."

"And now you're worried about the same thing happening with Bronze." It wasn't accusatory, simply a statement of fact.

"You're cut from the same cloth, it would seem."

She shook her head slightly. "Mal, you're a fool. A noble, stupid, ridiculous sweetheart of a fool, but still a fool."

"Now, listen, Alex--"

"He's already in danger. He's Kathryn's child, Mal. The woman who has already turned on his sick, twisted establishment. The woman he's already targeted. If you're right, and Bronze and I are so similar, eventually, he'll find some excuse to target the boy, just like he's found one for Quinn."

"I'd rather not give him that rea--"

"We can't protect them from everything, Malcolm. We can only limit the dangers they face. Come with me. Fight with me. I'm not going to let this go. I can't. Eventually, you know I'll find a way to kick over the hornet's nest. But it will never be this clean or this final, and I'm not fool enough to think there won't be consequences. There will always be consequences. At least this way, it will just be Bronze and whoever he can rustle up, instead of the staggering remains of his organization. Please. I'm asking you to do this for all of our children."

''What would you do with it? Dangle it in front of Bronze? I can't risk that. You put your trust in a lot of the wrong places. You've got a history -- a recent one, at that -- of placing your faith in parties that harm my daughter, and you're blind to it because they'll aide with you in some short-term goal,'' Again, he shook his head, bowing it. ''I can't have people like Drusilla close to this information just because they put up a front that suits you. You're simply too dangerous to trust with this, no matter how noble your intentions."

Alex shrugged one shoulder. "No, I'm not bringing it to Bronze. I'm bringing it to everyone. Golgotha is a nuke, and I'm going to use it like one. I mean to send it to everyone, Malcolm. Every intelligence organization, every law enforcement agency, every--''

It was Girard's turn to gape. "Are you mad? Yes, by all means, that's a fantastic idea! Send yourself to jail, take Kathryn with you. There's information there that makes Amy an accessory to various interferences into federal investigations, so at least you'd both be in the system -- though you'd be in a high security facility, likely on death row...'' Malcolm balled a fist. ''You make the information public and Bronze will come after you, just as hard, if not harder than he would if it was destroyed. Much more than he will when it remains in my hands. You don't think clearly anymore, Alex. You really never did.''

"Not when it comes to your daughter, I don't." She sighed, looked away. "She was crying, Malcolm. Broken up. Said that cheating was in her blood, that she wasn't worth my time. They did that to her. They made her question everything she is, everything we are. They made her think I would... that I would be better off without her. And they did it to move pieces on a chessboard. They did it because we took Golgotha in the first place. That kind of system... it doesn't work. It can't be allowed to work."

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably, his mind warring between outrage and concern. "So we should all go to jail because of it?"

"We committed crimes, Mal. We hurt people. I hurt people. But..." Pierce fingered the ring on her necklace, a promise ring given to her by Amy a few months ago after a particularly difficult night, and she couldn't help her smile. "But do you honestly think Kathryn would agree to any plan that would leave her behind bars? She has an edit box. She's been trolling for almost a year to find one. I'm not so consumed with guilt that I'm giving up."

"An edit box?"

"Quinn, Amy, Kathi, even you and I... we'll be deleted from the file before it gets uploaded." She sighed, combing her fingers through her hair. "I... I know it's not great -- there's every possibility they'll investigate the empty spaces, but that likely comes later. After. There will be plenty more for them to sift through."

''What stops people like Bronze and Drusilla from handing the lot of us over, though? We'd be caught up in court for years -- and those aren't the kinds of battles we're used to fighting.''

Alex sighed. "If Drusilla was going to roll over on us, we'd be behind bars already. Randall has had her for almost two months."

"Then Bronze. Or Cozen. Or--"

"I can't predict everything, Mal. All I can do is fight them. We'll win. It will be over."

"If you succeed."

"If I succeed, yes. I could fail. I could lose, and Bronze could get Golgotha back. That's why I need you with us. Don't make me keep asking, Malcolm -- eventually, I'll just be embarrassing myself. Come with us to Adelaide--"

"Adelaide? Are you insane? That place is--"

"The only one that has a data connection everywhere I need it. Come with me. You can carry Golgotha yourself, and if you're unsatisfied, it doesn't get used."

The man finally sighed, pressing his shoulders back against the bench and looking to the sky. ''You don't speak a word of this to Amy. She's not to know why you're there, or who might be with you.''

"My lips are sealed. As far as I'm concerned, she can just reap the reward for it." She leaned forward, elbows on knees. "So you're in?" She chanced a look his way.

''Don't make a fool of me,'' Malcolm said, but he nodded. "We'll have to get the flash drive -- I've shipped it back to the U.S." She arched a brow and his smile stretched. "I'm not some wet behind the ears rookie."

"Never said you were." She shrugged, glancing away as she stood. "People in a hurry tend to run downhill when they're nervous or in a hurry. Did you know that? It seems faster, even if it's not."

Girard's brow furrowed. "I don't know what this has to do with--" Then the picture snatched into focus. "The notes in town. The curio shop I went to... you knew about it?"

She hunched over, her brows coming together. "Pricings no good for you? I give good deal."

"That was..." Despite himself, he grinned, shaking his head. "But I saw you on the bike."

"You saw a redhead on a motorcycle and decided the rest for yourself." She shared that grin, reaching into her pocket for the thumb drive.

"You really are something else." He reached for the hand, but paused before he took it. "If you already had it, why did you even come here? Why wait?"

Her brows climbed. "I know what you can do, Malcolm. I'd be a fool not to bring you with me." Her eyes dropped, a touch of a smirk on her lips. "Besides, Amy deserves her father."

''And a talking-to about Kathryn Shaw, it seems.''

"I'd save that until after the tearful reunion."

"Adelaide, really?" His chuckle was a rueful thing. "Can never be easy, can it? When do we move?"

"Soon. I'm no fool -- I'll need a team, first. Besides, my daughter's play is more important."

He couldn't help but shake his head, taking the thumb drive and tucking it back into his pocket. "Look at us, Mother and Father of the Year."

Alex chuckled, looking down. "Furthest thing from it, really. But it's Les Miz."

"Well, if it's Les Miz, I might have to get a ticket." Girard stood as well, balling up the remains of the loaf and throwing it and the bag away. "You realize we're probably both walking to our deaths for a job that, at best, might make us international fugitives, right?"

She grinned, striding away. "Around here, we call that 'Tuesday'."
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