#

 

You walk into the bar, shielding your eyes from the swirling dust.  An undecipherable country song is playing from a dilapidated jukebox in the corner. The smell of stale alcohol and smoke almost causes you to gag.  Your eyes scan the nearly empty bar looking for the man that Sean described to you. Hispanic male. Usually dressed in all black, military cut hair. I'm not sure of the name he's using these days but that should been enough for you to find him.  

 

The light is so low that you barely see your hand in front of you. You feel eyes on you - no not the ogling of the normal man - but a hard, deciphering stare. A stare that chills you to the bone. Turning around, you look at each patron in the bar.  Most of the people in the bar are older, and mostly men.  Not one matches the description Sean gave you.

 

You move closer to the bar, hoping the slight limp that has carried over from your injury is less pronounced than previous days, if not gone entirely. Behind the shabby wood counter, you see the taps, the various bottles of light and dark, sweet and bitter liquor, but no one to serve them. At first. It takes you a good minute to see the man shadowed brilliantly in the far corner behind the bar, his dark apparel hindering you, but aiding him, you figure.

 

He's sitting, slouched against a slab of wood with his arms lazily crossed across his stomach, a dark Stetson shading his face from view. His stance is harmless, or more likely just appears so. The illusion he offers is so strong you're amazed, but in the back of your head is a warning of "Don't feed the animals". You step closer, angling your body for an immediate escape if necessary, and clear your throat.

 

"A shot of whiskey."  You lay down the money and turn away from the bar.  "Sean said that you'd be hard to spot but I didn't believe him.  I have to admit you're good."

 

The man gets up from a stool in the corner behind the bar, grabs a glass, and walks towards you.  "And you're too obvious, Ms. Doren."

 

His slow Texan drawl almost causes you to stop.  In your world, you've heard every accent from Russian to Irish but it's been so long since you've heard a simple American accent that it's almost endearing.

 

But after calling you obvious, he needn't know that.

 

He brusquely sets the amber liquid in front of you, slopping roughly a finger’s worth on the bar top. Slighted, you reach out to take a bill back, but he beats you to the punch and snatches the full stash away.

 

"Consider it an advance on your next one," he says, and from the look in his deep brown eyes, he appears to be serious.

 

"What makes you think I'll want another one?" You ask before tipping the glass back.  As the liquid slides down your throat, you take another glance at the man who catches your eye and turns back towards the bottles against the wall.

 

He doesn't respond to your question, but then again you have a feeling that he doesn't need to. By the time his rangy form has retreated into the shadows, tossing one long leg over his stool to sit back down, your palate is practically screaming for more.

 

Know it all bastard.

 

He crosses his arms again, staring intently at you, and if you're not mistaken, you see a slight smile form briefly on his face. He knows. And if that isn't the liquor warming the blood in your veins, it's ire, which might end this meeting faster than he could beat you in slapjack with those large hands.

 

"Look, I came a long way for information.  Information that Sean Murphy said you that you had---"

 

"I know how far you've come, but it doesn't change the fact you're too obvious.  Your surveillance skills are rusty.  I was told that you are one of the best."

 

You won't give this man the satisfaction of seeing you flustered by his show of praise. If a man were in your shoes, he sure wouldn't. But, unfortunately, you don't have the option of shifting your dick in your pants to show a fellow man that you have full comprehension of your extraordinary capabilities, so you just stand there.

 

He walks back to you, holding the bottle of whiskey in his hand, and raises a brow at you before speaking again.

 

"Another, Ms. Doren?"

 

You glance down at the empty shot glass and back at him.  Damn if you don't want another shot.  Ever since you woke up at Sean's compound two months ago, you've found that you've gotten to like whiskey when you settled for a simple red wine in the past.

 

Tapping the edge of the glass, you nod to him. "Give me another."  With a knowing smirk on his face, he pours the second glass just as quickly as the first. 

 

"What's your name?" you ask after you down the second glass.

 

"Why is that important?"

 

You run your finger around the rim of the glass, asking yourself why, indeed, was that important? As you come full circle, you see his eyes narrowing on the motion, watching your slender finger as it then slides down the side of the glass through heavy condensation. If you were a flirt, you'd slide the digit in your mouth and take in the wetness.

 

But you're not, so you place your hand palm down on the jagged wood.

 

"Sean never told me the name, but I suppose it's not important. Although, it would be nice to call you something rather than cowboy."

 

He chuckles at your remark and you're surprised at how much brighter his face looks when he smiles. "Robert Santos. Friend of Sean Murphy."

 

"Is that your real name?"

 

He shakes his head, as if he wasn't supposed to laugh, and the smile vanishes. It's replaced by a look that you first consider haunted, but then it sinks in that this look had been consistent since you arrived. Respectfully, you say nothing about what you suspect. Being in shoes that are similar, you rarely want anyone around you to point out your personality quirks. He starts to walk off and you wonder for a moment if you've been dismissed. You sidle down the bar closer to him and speak lowly.

 

"Do you have somewhere private we can go to discuss this?"

 

"Not during business hours.  Come back around two A.M.."  With that he walks off, and you realize that you have been shelved for the night.

 

You don't want to admit defeat, but as he walks through a battered door labeled "Office" and you hear the click of a dead bolt being secured, you realize you don't have much of a choice.

 

#

 

You return to the bar almost a full day later and out of patience.  Laredo has never been on your “to see” list, and spending the day going to banal exhibits didn't exactly endear you to the city.  A part of you wonders if this information that Mr. Santos allegedly has is worth it and another part of you wonders if Sean was telling you the truth about Julian and this Lauren.  You pace outside of the bar, angry with yourself for thinking that Julian would replace you so quickly. 

 

"And here I am, thinking that you just gave up and left the country."  You continue to pace ignoring the lazy drawl of his voice.

 

He's leaning against the building, conveniently ensconced in the darkness of night. If you'd not seen the glowing dark orange tip of his cigarette, you probably wouldn't have known he was there.

 

Clad in more black, you see when he steps out of the shadows and towards you, the combination of him, the lack of light, and the sudden quiet that seems to float around you two, gives him an even more dangerous edge. If that was even possible.

 

"Ms. Doren, if you are going to come to my place of business at this time of night, try to be a little more covert.  Just coming to the door like a regular customer isn't going to cut it."

 

In the low light from one of the parking lights, you catch a smug look on his face and anger flares inside of you.  "Just who in the hell do you think you're dealing with? Some rookie who doesn't recognize when she's been played? Or are you trying to impress me with your cold behavior? I've been there already.  It doesn't impress me and neither do you. "

 

Suddenly, he begins to clap. "I was hoping that you had some of that fire that Sean told me about, and I was getting worried. Now, do you want to see what I've got or what?"

 

You try not to appear aghast that he's just made a mockery out of your wasted time in this city, and toyed with the thin string of control that is left of your emotions and patience. But your anger burns hot. Your hand itches to slap that smug farce of a smile from his face and your only recourse is to ball your hand into a fist. Hard. You refrain, barely, and force a light look to your face, hoping you haven't ruined the chance to see what he has.

 

Yet you find yourself saying in a mocking tone, "Show me the way, cowboy."

 

He steps out of the way and you walk towards the door of the bar.  "This proof that you have.  What is it?"

 

"Look, Ms. Doren, if you think I'm putting you on...

 

Your urge to strike breaks free, coming forth in a verbal lashing. “Look, Mr. Santos, if you thought that was doubt in my voice then you were sorely mistaken. Living the life of the laid back cowboy – chewing his cud like a goddamn cow – isn’t an opportunity all of us have. I’ve just found out that the one person I thought I could trust with my life has screwed me over. If what Sean says is true, then I’m going to need proof. Hard proof.”

 

He’s just staring at you, assessing your outburst with no emotion. “And if you can’t give me solid proof, then I’ll take my business…”

 

Elsewhere is caught in a gasp, or stuck under your heart which has lodged itself in your throat as he flips the switch in the small back room. Pictures. Ten or so, lined up on a rectangle of corkboard, confront you as you step inside.

 

You’re stuck in a daze, staring at the familiar blonde man captured in print with a night vision camera. The contours of his face remind you of nights spent memorizing them all, touching and even tasting them, too. You don’t expect to feel a pang, but you do.

 

Especially when you view the last set, seeing him entwined with, kissing, an attractive fair-haired woman. Lauren.

 

“Here,” Robert interrupts you, handing you a mini-recorder. “There’s a good three hours worth of proof here.”

 

His accentuation on the word “proof” hurts; embarrassment is one of the emotions you despise the most. He leaves you to the visual and audio evidence that you’re sure now will confirm everything that Sean said. The recorder is cold in your hand, and you’re torn – do you really want to hear in his words what the pictures clearly say?

 

Your thumb depresses the “play” button, and the speaker crackles, the voices you hear slightly muffled by whatever object the microphone had been hidden in.

 

“I need to thank Will Tippin,” a woman's voice breathes as you hear what sounds like sheets rustling.

 

“For what, love?”  That pang you felt earlier comes back with a force.  His accented voice fails to make you smile like it had in the past.

 

“For killing Allison Doren.  After all, if he hadn't—I wouldn't be enjoying the spoils.”

 

Other than the whirr of the tape, you hear veritable silence. Even though he fucked you sideways in Gratz, you find a pearl of hope beading in your stomach. A last part of you is waiting for him to censure this woman for defecating on your memory.

 

You wait, but in two sentences, he manages to smash that bead. “I don’t know about that. You of all people should know how fast things change or opportunities arrive.”

 

His voice is so gravelly that you can only imagine what position they’re in. That won’t get you anywhere but mad, so you bite your lip and wait for more.

 

“Oh, I do.” Lauren responds. The following sound of lips smacking against skin sickens you, making you wince visibly. A light moan, female, trails more kisses. Your thumb stops the recording after the woman huskily says, “I really, really do.”

 

Feeling more angry than sad, you have a sudden urge to lob the thing across the room. You want blood, his and even hers, but would almost settle for what’s available – shattered bits of an electronic device. 

 

Hers. Her blood. You reflect on that and marvel at Sean’s tactics. In the span of a few minutes, he’s just managed to acquire your services.

 

A barely audible click warns you that you’re no longer alone. A dark presence looms behind you, distinctively Robert, and you freeze. Your shoulders automatically stiffen, knowing he’s heard the tape – probably all three hours of it.

 

Fool. His eyes are boring into your back, and you can imagine that word teetering on the tip of his tongue.

 

Facing the music head on, you turn, defiance marking your posture and the obstinate look on your face. You’ve got strength, class, the gumption to never, ever let a man see you cry.

 

Instead of the look of pity you were expecting to face, Robert shows nothing. You face him, holding out the recorder to him before you ruin it, and wait for a scathing comment. He’s silent as your anger turns into a sick bitterness. The heady emotion fills you, and you manage, somehow, to keep it out of your expression.

 

He accepts the recorder, all the while covertly searching your eyes. The understanding you see in them, the camaraderie, surprises you and you look away.

 

He clears his throat before you hear his deep voice. “I’m heading to Mexico tomorrow. To where that tape was made. If you want to brush up on your surveillance skills or…”

 

“Yeah,” you reply before he finishes his sentence. "I'll come back in the morning"

 

#

 

He's waiting for you the next morning, leaning against his pickup truck.  This time instead of black, he's dressed in dark blue jeans and a red plaid shirt.  A tan Stetson is on his head at a tilt, hiding his face from you.

 

"Mornin'.  Your name will be Maria Santos, my wife," he says while you walk towards him. "I'm a regular at the place where we'll be staying, and it'll work better if they believe that we are together in the biblical sense."

 

You nod simply as he hands you a gold band and a straw bag.  "All the proper paperwork is in the purse, in case we're randomly searched.  Let's roll out," he says over his shoulder as he walks to the back of the truck. "I want to get to our location before 3 o'clock."

 

You're quiet as you toss your overnighter in the bed of his truck and climb into the vehicle. As he gets into cab, you inhale deeply and note the smell of citrus and tobacco.

 

"The operation will be simple.  I think that you need to see her in—action.  To understand her habits. It will make things easier when its time for you to—" he trails off as he turns onto the road that heads towards the border.

 

"To kill her? Don't worry. I've done this before," you mutter underneath your breath as you jam the band onto your finger.  You did an operation like this with Sark before your change, but you didn't have to act like you cared about him. You did, and you hate yourself for even remembering.

 

"It's more complicated than that.  Lauren Reed is Covenant and there are at least three bodyguards nearby that I haven't clearly identified yet. Maybe more. It's important that you aren't too cocky," he says matter-of-factly as he turns onto the expressway.

 

"I'm not a cocky person." 

 

"Really? Then explain to me why I was able to spot you in my bar before you saw me. If you are as good as Sean said you were, then I shouldn't've been able to get the drop on you.  You walked into that place announcing who you were just by your body language. That's just not going to work in our business, Ms. Doren." 

 

He accents your name with just enough drawl to make you see red.  Goddamn Know-It-All. By the time you ready a response, you are drawing near the border. 

 

"Put this on your head to cover your hair," Robert says, handing you a yellow bandana from his shirt pocket. The scent of tobacco and citrus appears again as you wrap the scarf over your hair.

 

You lean back in the seat as a Customs officer begins his patrol of the cars waiting to cross the border.  Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at Robert, who has lit another cigarette and is leaning his arm out of the window.  The Stetson he's wearing is titled towards you and you still can't see his face clearly.

 

"How do you know Sean?" you ask finally breaking the silence.

 

The line moves forward, and he flicks ash off of his cigarette. "Why do you want to know?"

 

"I think you owe me that much, Mr. Santos.  You've been acting like an asshole ever since we've met and—"

 

"Your point? I don't share information about myself, Ms. Doren.  I'm just supposed to show you the proof that Sean wants you to see and you go back to Europe. Nothing more." He drawls your name again, and you start to wonder if he's doing it on purpose.

 

The line moves forward, and he takes another drag from his cigarette.

 

"This trip to Mexico, was this a part of the proof?"

 

Finally he looks at you and you see that same understanding in his eyes that you saw last night. What was that about  "No, this trip wasn't planned, but you need to see what you're up against when the time comes for you to finish the job."

 

The line moves forward and finally you are at the customs booth.

 

"Your names?" the woman asks Robert as he hands her his passport and nods towards you to grab yours.

 

"Mr. and Mrs. Robert Santos," he says clearly. He reaches over and squeezes your hand for emphasis.

 

"Citizenship?" she asks as you hand your passport to Robert and he hands them to the booth attendant.

 

"United States."

 

"Purpose of visit to Mexico?" she questions while looking at your passports.  You want to say, "To kill Lauren Reed,” but decide against it. 

 

"For a belated honeymoon. We just got hitched a few months ago."  You almost laugh out loud at the positively big smile that he has plastered on his face.  The smile brightens his face, lightening his features to such a degree that it is almost jarring to you.

 

"Have a good time," the woman says as she hands the passports to Robert. He tilts his Stetson to her and pulls off.

 

The silence that you shared with him before is back as you drive through the border town.  Laredo reminds you of the small towns in New Mexico where you spent time before the change.  You glance at him again, and the bloody hat is in the way of his face again.

 

"We'll be staying at the El Passporte motel and we'll track them tonight.  I wasn’t sure of your size, so I just threw some things I had at my place in my bag for you."

 

"I thought this was a one night trip."

 

"If things go according to plan, it will be but there's a chance that we may have to say more than one night.  Are you comfortable with sharing a room with me?"

 

The idea startles you, and you look up at him quickly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

 

"It's important that we look like a couple so if sharing a room is going to be a problem, you need to tell me now so I can make other arrangements."

 

"Sharing a room is fine, Santos. I'll do whatever it takes to make it believable."

 

"Glad to see you agree with something, Doren," he says as he leans back in the seat and makes a right turn onto the expressway again.  It's obvious that he isn't going to say anything more to you, so you place your sunglasses over your eyes and watch the scenery pass you by.

 

#

 

"Here's another key in case we get separated tonight," he says, handing you a small skeleton key. 

 

"What?" you ask as you fiddle with the lock of the pale beige door. The sun is now fully risen and beating down your back. You're tired, sweaty and hungry. 

 

"How much to do you weigh?" He asks when the door swings open.

 

"Excuse me, what the—"

 

"I have to carry you across—"

 

"You'll do no such thing."

 

"It's tradition, Doren. I told you I'm a regular here.  The owner asked, and I told him. I got married. So buck up."

 

You sigh loudly and drop your bag. "Fine."

 

Before you have a chance to think of the different swear words you can throw at him, he picks you up in one swoop and walks you over the threshold.  He sets you down gently, picks up the bags from the doorway, and kicks the door shut.

 

"Simple and to the point. The less you bitch, Doren, the quicker this mission will go."

 

"So you want me to agree to disagree?" you ask.  You glare at him even though he's done nothing wrong.  He's going out of his way to help you suppose, but damn him if he's going to get a thank you out of you today.

 

"If you don't mind," he retorts while taking a white handkerchief out of his back pocket.  "I'm going to get lunch.  You want anything?"

 

"Anything edible," you mutter.  "When are we going out?"  He picks up the bags from the floor and tosses them onto the bed.

 

"After dark.  There's a street festival going on and the pair will be meeting with a lackey within the Covenant tomorrow afternoon.  It'll be easier to track them with all the extraneous activity."  He dusts off his pants, and gives you another once over.

 

"I'll be back in forty minutes or so.  Get cleaned up if you want, and I'll be back."  With that he turns, and leaves you alone in the cardboard box of a room.