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Once a week, in the middle of the night, Sniper left the base. Spy didn’t notice at first, because why would he? It wasn’t his job to keep tabs on his teammates. Besides, he was too preoccupied with investigating their new Medic’s dubious credentials and pinning down the Engineer’s routine so he could snoop through his lab uninterrupted. The Sniper was at the bottom of his list due mainly to the fact that he technically lived in the van parked out back and only ever interacted with the rest of the team when absolutely necessary. He and Spy hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words since their contract began. That suited Spy fine; he had plenty of other things to do without tailing after some Australian mongrel.
Of course, that was before he woke in the middle of the night to the sound of a truck’s weary engine. He was a light sleeper at the best of times, which this most certainly wasn’t. Pistol in hand, he crept down to the garage. All the company vehicles stood quietly at attention, their hoods cool to the touch. But the Sniper’s van was gone.
Spy settled himself in the shadows by the door to wait. He was good at waiting. It was an essential part of his job. Holding still, watching, listening, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
He waited for three hours.
The van pulled back into the same spot it had occupied for the last three weeks, its headlights sharp and blinding in the muted grey darkness of pre-dawn. The truck’s engine died with a rattle. The lights dimmed. Sniper did not emerge.
Briefly, Spy considered knocking on the van’s door and demanding an answer. But confrontation was not in his style. Instead he crept back through the still, silent base to his room, where he could sip a glass of cognac and begin a new file on his teammate.
It happened again the next week, at exactly 2 am. This time Spy was already waiting in the garage. He watched the van disappear down the dark ravine that led to the base’s not-very-secret entrance, and three hours later watched it return. In that time, he tried to think of what the Sniper could possibly be doing. It wouldn’t be a job; not twice in a row. Perhaps reconnaissance, but then, why wouldn’t Spy have been asked to go as well? Clearly he needed more information.
Breaking into the Sniper’s van wasn’t half as hard as waiting for a time when the van was empty. The man ate, slept, and mostly likely relieved himself within the confines of the 8x8 tin walls, only ever emerging for missions or the occasional debriefing. It took two weeks for Spy to find his opening. At last, Sniper agreed to go for a grocery run with Scout, who seemed to be one of the few people Sniper tolerated for any period of time. As soon as they took off in the RED Bread truck, Spy went out to the van and deftly picked the lock.
It was just as disgusting inside as he expected. The trash can overflowed with empty jars of vegemite and cans of beetroot. The table was covered in the parts of a half-dissassembled rifle. Dirty laundry sat in a pile at the end of the bed. The whole place reeked of cheap tobacco and beer. Spy covered his nose with his handkerchief and set to work.
An hour later, he knew more about the bushman than he ever cared to know; what he ate (vegemite, cheese, and beetroot sandwiches), what he read (knitting magazines), what his shoe size was (9). But he still hadn’t found any clues that might tell him where the man went on his weekly excursion. The problem was maddening, like an itch Spy just couldn’t reach.
He started paying closer attention to Sniper during their missions. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He was an excellent marksman, it had to be said, and he was dedicated to the work. Not once could Spy say that he faltered in his duties or gave the other team any kind of leeway. And as soon as the buzzer blared, and the Administrator declared victory or defeat, he retreated to his van without so much as a ‘by your leave’. If he wanted answers, clearly Spy was going to have to look for an alternative source.
“Where is he going?” Spy demanded.
The voice on the other end was groggy and filled with sleep. “Wha’?”
“The Sniper. Where is he going?”
“Did you…” he could practically hear Miss Pauling frown. “Spy, did you seriously call me at five o'clock in the morning just to ask me that?”
“Yes. Every week, he leaves in the middle of the night and returns approximately three hours later. Where does he go?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“He’s your man. Are you sending him on some kind of mission?”
“No.”
“Is it possible he’s working for the BLU team?”
“No. I’m hanging up now.”
“But—”
The phone went dead. Spy cursed. Back to square one.
The next day, after the match, Spy refrained from returning to his own quarters. The rest of the team had dispersed, each to their own devices. Sniper, naturally, disappeared into his van. The Engineer and the Demolitions Man headed to their shared lab, deep in discussion. Scout made a beeline for the kitchen, and began rooting through the fridge like a hungry dog. Spy watched him for a moment with mild distaste.
“So, you are friends with the Sniper,” he said, as though making casual conversation.
Scout’s head slammed into the roof. “Fucking hell!” He emerged, clutching the back of his skull and glaring daggers at Spy. “What’s the big idea, sneaking up on me like that?”
“I did not sneak. You are merely unobservant.”
“Yeah, and you’re a dick.”
Spy elected to ignore the insult, just this one time. “The Sniper,” he prompted.
“Yeah, what about him?”
“What does he do in his downtime?”
Still glaring, Scout took out one of his rancid energy drinks and cracked it open with a hiss. “Why?”
Spy shrugged. “I’m merely attempting to get to know my teammates. We will be working together for quite some time, no?”
“I guess.”
“Does he have any hobbies? Anyone outside the base he keeps in contact with?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about himself much. Doesn’t talk at all, really.”
“But you spend more time with him than anyone else on the team. Surely you should know something.”
“Well I don’t, okay? You’re so damn curious, go ask him yourself.” Scout left, deliberately bumping into Spy as he passed. Nor did Spy miss the muttered, “Creep”. Neither of those things bothered him as much as the lack of progress he’d made. What kind of Spy was he if he couldn’t even learn this one simple fact about his coworker?
He had no other choice, now. It was time for drastic measures.
The next week, he arrived in the garage early and waited for the van to start. As soon as the headlights flared, he cloaked himself and slipped through the back door. The Sniper never noticed a thing. Spy watched as the blue-drenched desert sped past. He recognized this route: they were headed toward the town.
Just as they reached the outskirts of Teufort, the van slowed. A gas station’s flickering neon sign greeted them. Spy heard the driver’s side door open and shut, and then the distant jingling bell of the station’s convenience store.
Cloaking himself again, Spy emerged from the van. Through the station’s grimy window he watched as the Sniper purchased a cup of coffee with a twenty dollar bill, and received his change entirely in coins. Then he emerged, and made for the pay phone around the side of the building.
Spy crept closer, holding his breath. It would not do to blow his cover now, not when he was so close.
“68 2114. Mundy.”
Spy silently repeated the numbers to himself. Was it some kind of code? A trigger phrase?
All at once, Sniper’s posture relaxed. He held the phone closer to his ear, cradling the receiver. For the first time, Spy saw him smile. “Hey, mum.”
“That’s what you’ve been doing?” Spy exploded.
The phone dropped from Sniper’s hands, replaced in the blink of an eye with a gun.
“What— Spy? What the bloody hell are you doing?”
“Me? What are you doing, calling your mother in the middle of the night?”
“I— Bloody— hang on.” To Spy’s disbelief, Sniper picked up the phone again. “Mum? Yeah, no, I’m still here. Listen, something’s come up, but just stay on the line. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He carefully placed the phone sideways over the hook, and then pointed his gun directly at Spy’s chest. “I’m going to give you three seconds to explain why the hell you’ve been following me.”
“You’ve been sneaking out every week for the past two months. What was I meant to think?”
“You weren’t meant to think anything! What I do in my own time is my business.”
“Not when it comes to the safety of the team.”
“The safety of the team,” Sniper scoffed. “Piss off.”
“Please. Do you really expect me to believe that’s your mother on the other end of the line? At this hour?”
“Yeah. You know why?”
“Please, bushman," Spy said contemptuously, "enlighten me.”
“Because Australia is in a different time zone, you absolute dickhead!”
Oh. If Spy had a cigarette, he likely would’ve swallowed it. As it stood, he felt like melting into his shoes. Or perhaps just running away, although there was no guarantee Sniper wouldn’t shoot him in the back.
“I see,” he said, his voice strangled. “Forgive me.”
“Nah.” Sniper shook his head. “The only reason I’m not shooting you in the face right now is because my mum’s on the other line, and I’d rather not keep her waiting. But I will shoot if you’re still here by the time I pick up the phone. And by still here, I mean if you pull that spook shit, they’re going to be finding pieces of you at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Understand?”
“The threat was not necessary, but yes.”
Sniper lowered his gun. As casually as he could, Spy took out his lighter and cigarette case, and strolled to the other side of the parking lot, well out of earshot. His hand shook as he lit up. Time zones. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He could only pray this never reached the rest of the team. They’d never let him live it down, especially Scout. He’d be the laughing stock of the entire mercenary world.
As he’d apparently been doing every week, Sniper stood at the payphone for nearly three hours. Although Spy couldn’t hear the conversation, his body language spoke volumes. He was at ease, even happy. Once Spy heard him laugh, faint and low. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the metal box, and when he’d finished he tossed the butt down to a small pile at the base of the booth. In the east, the dawn’s grey curtain began to lift.
At last, Sniper hung up. Spy approached warily. “Your conversation went well, I presume?”
Sniper paused in the act of hauling himself into the driver’s seat. “Piss off.”
“I do apologize for following you. I assure you, I only had the team’s best interest at heart.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Sniper slammed the door shut. The truck coughed to life.
“I must ask, though, that you keep this little encounter just between us. It would only damage morale, for them to know that I suspected one of our own as a traitor.”
Sniper looked down at him. Half hidden behind those ridiculous sunglasses, his expression was inscrutable, save for the barest twitch of a smile. “Sure, mate. Just between us. See you back at the base.”
Spy barely had time to process Sniper’s words before the van peeled out of the gas station, leaving Spy behind in a cloud of foul black exhaust. At least Spy had the dignity not to run after it. He watched as the van shrank to a small white dot against the black ribbon of highway, then disappeared over the horizon.
Spy sighed. At least he’d have plenty of time to brace himself for the inevitable ridicule from the rest of the team. He took out a cigarette, inhaled some of the sweet, burning smoke, and started walking.