It was weird how fast the rest of their journey went, even if Sam didn't sleep a wink for the following sixteen hours. They've spent about six more hours in that station, waiting for the right train, but with Skye pressed against him for warmth, it felt like a second.

She looked at him with wonder in her eyes, like he was some sort of superhero, while also knowing the full extent of what this life did to his mind. So maybe he'd kept certain things to himself, like how his fear of heights combined with jumping off a speeding train had made him throw up on the side of it. Yeah... That wasn't exactly relevant.

What he loved most about her was how she took their job seriously as well. She didn't complain, and even if he told her to sleep through the night, she woke up almost every hour to make sure everything was alright. At one point she'd completely panicked when she awoke and he wasn't there, and had come to find him.

No, she wasn't taking him for granted, wasn't leaving everything up to him, like Christine used to when it came to missions. She was there, making sure he knew he wasn't alone every step of the way.

By the time they reached Washington DC, Sam felt a little groggy from the lack of sleep, but they were running a tight schedule so he couldn't afford to dwindle. They went to an inn which was close to the train station, and while Skye go ready for the party, he made a quick grocery run to fill up on some snacks and energy drinks.

Once back in their room (this time it was all about safety, so damn propriety, it wasn't like they were sleeping in it), Sam got to work on his mask. There was no way he was going in there with his own face, but he didn't have the time to craft an entirely new one. A few prosthetics would have to do.

Taking advantage of his alone time, he quickly put on his tuxedo, flung some instant die in his hair to make it graying, slicked it back and continued molding his new nose.

The door to the bathroom opened and Sam raised his eyes. His breath caught in his throat and his heart did a weird loop thing, then started beating as if the world was about to end and it wanted to make up for lost time.

Skye came out, wearing a long, bright red sequin dress with a dipping cleavage and a cut on the side. It hung to her every curve just right, making her look amazing. She'd caught her hair to the base of her neck in a messy bun, tendrils of golden hair framing her face like a halo. Her lips were a bright, ruby red, and her eyeshadow looked like silver stars, making the blue in her eyes stand out.

He'd never seen her like this, dressed up and gorgeous. Because she was, and he could no longer deny it.

She stared at him too, and he stood, feeling awkward to be sitting while she didn't. Her eyes moved from his shoulders to his chest, then lower, taking him in from head to foot.

"You're hair looks weird," she said, her voice a little breathy.

He couldn't believe she was real and that those lips could actually produce words in such a familiar voice. "I know. I hate it."

"Yeah, slick back is not your look." She narrowed her eyes. "What's wrong with your forehead?"

Huh? Oh, right. "I made a wrinkle design and I put it on, but still need to fix it... properly..." He stammered as she walked to him, determination in her eyes.

She put her thumbs on his forehead and smoothed the silicone over his skin, molding it properly. And, like an idiot, all he could do was stare at her lips, because by God, that shade of lipstick was amazing and he'd never wanted to kiss anyone more in his life. Come to think about it, even if he'd known he projected feelings of actual love on her, he'd never really felt the need to act on it. Until now.

"There," she whispered, letting her fingers slide down the side of his face, on his cheeks.

There was a mild tinge of fear in her eyes as she looked at him. She was maybe two inches shorter than him on her heels. So close... All he had to do was lean over and...

And what? No. They were on a mission and he sure as hell wasn't going down that road. It was probably the fact that he was exhausted, too, and the energy drink running through his system was having a laugh.

"You look wonderful," he still said, because it was polite, not because holly hell he wanted to see what was underneath that dress.

"Thank you," she said with a smile. "You don't clean up too bad yourself. Except the hair."

"Wait until you see my new nose and chin." Which he would be applying himself.

Skye left him to it while she packed her gear, and without further interruptions, they were ready to leave five minutes later. As they rode in the cab, she took his hand, and while he was sure it was for support, for her as well as for him, it felt like so much more. Was she...? Ugh, who cares? He cared. A lot.

She's not attracted to you. Now get a move on, you have a job to do. You're just projecting feelings on her anyway.

Which was true. Except with love, it made sense. It was an abstract feeling humans needed to survive, to feel better on the inside and face life. But lust was an entirely different thing. Mathematical, physical and purely animalistic.

"What are you thinking?" she whispered.

"How to get out of this alive," he answered truthfully, knowing too well she'd never guess he wasn't fully focused on this mission.

"What's the plan?"

"We go in and split up to look for clues. We both have our transmitters so we can communicate. According to Harrison's information, there are two floors. The lower one where the party would be and an upper one filled with offices for doing business, that overlooks the lower floor."

Skye nodded, her face set in concentration. "Do you have any idea what we're actually looking for?"

"Von Crooken. We need to see who he's hanging out with and where he gets his money and weapons."

She nodded again and raised her eyes to him. A small crease appeared between her brows as she studied his face.

"What?" he asked. "Something wrong with my face? Beside the obvious that should be wrong with it."

"No. I just hope no one will recognize you. I mean you do look different, but to me you're like... A masterpiece with an annoying addition that ruins the entire effect. Like if someone changed the smile of the Mona Lisa and the backdrop, or had Michelangelo's David looking the other way and holding a pineapple instead of an apple."

"A pineapple?" He almost snorted with laughter. "Though I guess I should be feeling flattered that you're comparing me to classical masterpieces." And he should totally stop reading into it.

She just shrugged, but was smiling. "It's not you. I just get so little chance to use my minor in art."

"You have a minor in art?" That was a bit shocking, though it explained the knickknacks in her home and all the art magazines she had in her office. He'd always thought they were the greeting room bullshit doctors liked to put out just to seem smarter than they were.

"Yes. I took it in premed because as much as I wanted to be a doctor, I've always loved the human soul and there's nothing that feeds that more than art."

Sam felt a bit guilty, realizing how much original, awesome art he'd actually seen but ignored because he was too busy running for his life. "That's cool. And interesting. I'm minoring in math."

She turned to him, a look of utter surprise on her face. "Math? But isn't your major history?"

"Yes. Ancient cultures and civilizations with a bit of modern day politics thrown in. But history is like a maze and can become a jumbled mess if you don't know how to navigate it. Math is useful. Cryptography, statistics, tactics. It all requires mathematical thinking."

"Yes, you do have that. How did this not come up before?" she muttered to herself.

"We never really talked about my schooling. We had more pressing matters." He looked out the window since the cab was slowing down. "We're here, and I think your art skills could be put to good use."

The building was a Colonial temple on the bank of the Potomac River, a few yards away from Arlington Memorial Bridge. The entire facade was draped in Christmas lights and the sound of Jazz music flitted out on the street from inside. If things got too heated, they could always jump into the river.

"At least our outfits are appropriate," Skye whispered as Sam helped her out of the car. "I would've hated to go to a club dressed like this."

"I'm betting you anything it's a twenties party because people have totally lost their imagination."

Once they were cleared to enter as Mr. and Mrs. Cummings, because Herrison did have a sense of humor sometimes, Sam was proven right. Half the women in the place wore flapper dresses and smoked cigars from their long portcigarettes, while the men sported long coattails and cigars.

Sam glanced around, reminding himself that it was a private party filled with politicians and goons, so no one cared about public smoking, and tried to catch a glimpse of Von Crooken. As Herrison had informed them, there were indeed two levels, and while most of the party was down stairs, Sam could see men resting their forearms on the banister which overlooked the dance floor from the upper story, talking amongst themselves.

Staying in the pit was dangerous. A sharpshooter could easily single them out from up there and shoot them in the head. As much as he hated to do this, there were less chances that anyone would recognize Skye and target her, so he really did have to leave her to it and take the upstairs.

"Just like we discussed," he said, leaning over her. "Let me know if you find anything and please, please stay out of trouble."

She huffed. "You're saying that like I usually get into trouble."

No, he was saying it like he didn't want to lose her, but he wasn't about to correct her, so he just kissed her cheek, both for the part and because getting anywhere near her was a treat.

"Going up to have fun with the big boys m'dear. Go mingle," he said loudly, then squeezed her hand and sauntered up the stairs.

As soon as he reached the top, he looked down. Skye was easy to discern thanks to her red shiny dress, though, fortunately, she wasn't the only blonde wearing red. She'd grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing tray and was making the rounds, touching shoulders and laughing with people as if she knew them. No one looked confused, all of them probably convinced that they'd seen Skye before, just couldn't place her.

"Good job," he muttered to her.

"Please do that sexy southern voice again," she replied in hushed tones.

"Shut up."

And he was off, too, looking into rooms as he went and engaging into conversation with two gentlemen about electric cars and their impact on the price of oil.

"Sam," Skye said urgently, about an hour in. "I think I found him. Von Crooken. Looks like the guy in the photo and is laughing like an obnoxious pig."

Sam excused himself from the conversation with two men who looked an awful lot like Mark Twain, and started walking along the railing, looking in on the crowd below, trying to catch a glimpse of her. "Sounds like him. Where is he?"

"You can't see him from up there. It's a separé under the balcony. He's with three other men."

Shit. "Try to hear what they're talking about, but don't get too close."

Damn it, this was torture. But Skye stayed silent, so he guessed it was a good thing. No screams or shots meant she hadn't been found. He doesn't know what she looks like anyway. The only one who'd actually seen her was Eye Patch, but maybe he wasn't there. He wanted to ask, but was afraid he'd distract her.

"They're coming up," she suddenly said, making him literally jump.

"I'm on it. You mingle some more."

She stayed silent and Sam moved around the banister until he reached the opposite end from the stairs. Von Crooken was indeed coming up with three other men. One was familiar, so most likely one of the goons, while the other two did look like politicians with their flag pins and pocket watches. The group moved to one of the offices and Sam made his way towards them. The chances of entering that room were slim, but if the office next to it was empty, he could do another fear-of-heights-defying act and manage to spy on them. Until then however...

He passed by the office just as the last man was going in and, with a careful and discreet movement, rolled the pebble microphone inside right before the door closed.

"Anything interesting about their conversation?" he asked as he strolled to the door on the left of the one Von Crooken and his group had entered.

"They mostly spoke in code, but I have a bad feeling about something. I'll go check and be back."

"What do you mean spoke in code? And what are you checking?" He stopped in front of the door, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Skye? Skye, answer me."

She didn't and he felt like punching something. What was she getting herself into? Trust her, she's not an idiot. She won't bite more than she can chew. And yet he was tragically reminded of Angie.

Screaming into a crowded hallway was not going to help, so he let himself inside the room instead. This office was blissfully empty, decorated with the same turn of the century feel as the rest of the place. Dark wooden paneling covered the walls and a huge mahogany desk with blue felt took up most of the space under the windows. There was even one of those lamps with a green lampshade which didn't allow the light to go beyond the desk. A few dark green velvet armchairs and a sofa filled out most of the space and a few painting adorned the walls. Skye would probably appreciate the classic feel of them, but Sam was already more interested in the window and the conversation his microphone was picking up.

"So, this is it," Von Crooken was saying, "with just as much to be handed in on delivery."

"Looks good, looks good," an unfamiliar voice responded. "But we'll have to test the quality, you do understand that."

"Of course," Von Crooken said. "It's all first class, and I usually don't permit people to doubt my word, but what you are providing in return is too tempting."

Sam had a nagging feeling that they were talking about more than weapons and money, because who the hell wanted to test money, but he needed a visual. Skye had been right. They kept talking using freaking its and thats and it was non descript as fuck.

Swallowing the bile already making its way up his throat, he opened the window. The biting sting of the winter wind cleared his head the tiniest bit and he started taking his magnets out. First the big one he usually used, and two tiny ones with wraps for his hands. Even if he was only on the first story, the rooms were very tall, so he was going to end up dangling thirty feet in the air because that was just his luck.

Taking a deep breath, Sam climbed on the ledge, trying to focus solely on the mechanics of what he had to do. The sound of the raging river cut through his concentration, brought him back to another space and time when he stared down at a freezing river while Christine's screams tore through him.

For a second, he was eighteen again, in Chennonceau, staring into the Cher river while two goons were attempting to rape Christine in the adjoining room. The panic and paralysis he'd felt then were back and his vision blurred.

Raucous laughter broke through the memory as the people in the next room continued to entertain themselves with evil deeds. Sam shook his head and snapped himself back to reality. This was different. He had gear and no one was pressing him to do this. He just had to, for himself and for his mission.

So he set the magnets to high intensity, stuck them on the wall to his right and found a decorative crest in the wall where he could secure his feet. Then, fighting vomit, he crawled his way along the wall until the room next door became visible.

Von Crooken sat at a massive desk very similar to the one on the office Sam has left behind. The familiar man stood behind his chair, facing the room, his hands clasped behind his back, holding a concealed pistol. The two politicians sat on two dark blue velvet chairs, cigars in their mouths.

The desk was filled with what looked like ten pounds of flour and a large assault rifle.

Sam was not dumb enough to believe it was flour. Von Crooken was paying for his weapons in drugs. Because why the hell not?

"It's next generation stuff," one of the politicians said. "They will be special ops standard in about three years."

"I see," Von Crooken said, picking up the rifle and taking aim at random around the room.

The two men laughed. "Don't point it our way. It has a very temperamental trigger."

Then you'd have to be idiots to give it to him charged. But Sam wasn't there to judge the intelligence level of the room. The gun did look incredibly high tech, and as the two idiots boasted about how silent and light it was, the bitter taste in his mouth intensified.

It wasn't about the height anymore, but about the uselessness of his mission. Yes, he had information and yes, the Agency could profit from it. But they wouldn't stop the two crooked politicians. They'd just stop the deal between them and Von Crooken, just like they'd done in Stavroski's case.

No one in that room would be punished. Just their deal wouldn't go through. Because the Agency didn't care about right and wrong. They didn't care about a table filled with drugs and stolen prototypes. They only wanted to sabotage Snitch Gravel. And at what cost?

Getting a sick feeling, Sam released one of the magnets and took one of his guns out of its holster inside his coat. He'd had the same gun for two years, one he'd gotten used to, but the Agency kept issuing new equipment for them from time to time. Like this gun which he'd taken along instead of his rubber bullet one. The grip was good, it was just a little lighter than his old one... And as he turned it around and analyzed every inch of it, something he'd never bothered to do before, he found what he was looking for. At the base of the hilt, so small it was easy to miss, was a red square with what looked like and eight inside it.

Only Sam knew they were actually two S's, one backwards, entwined to form a symbol. The symbol put there by all of Stavroski's suppliers to mark the weapons meant for him.

Because as he watched the crooked politics happening in the office before him, he'd finally figured out what the Agency did with the information. Used it for themselves. Soon enough, those assault rifles could be standard issue for them, even before special ops got to test them out.

"Sam," Skye whispered, "I wasn't wrong. They drugged and raped a woman and left her in a bathroom." Her voice was turning panicky. "Sam, I want to call the police."

Her words sobered him and he pulled away from the window. The police... They were beyond the police, way above anything federal because they worked at an international level. They were poetic justice. Except they were useless.

"Call them," he said. "Von Crooken has stolen prototype weapons and a table filled with drugs. The police should know this. I'm coming out."

"Be careful," she said.

Of course he would be. He'd just snap a few photographs of the merchandise and people involved and get back to safety. He didn't even feel the sickness associated with heights as he made his way back inside the office and closed the window behind him.

"Well, well, this is unexpected," a snide voice said.

Sam jumped and turned towards the desk. Standing next to it, leaning a hand on the back of the chair behind it, stood Snitch Gravel.

♠️♠️♠️

Dun dun dun! Were you expecting that?

I had a lot of fun with this chapter. Writing came so easy and I was just going like a machine gun, lol. All thoughts are of course appreciated. Especially because we are making some progress on all fronts here.

Fun fact: the dress in the photo is how I picture Skye's, except it would be long and have a slit on one side.

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