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Sam wore his oldest ‘pick ‘em up’ shirt, a blue linen still so dark it was almost black, and just loose enough to imply a shoulder to waist ratio that was no longer strictly accurate. The linen-cotton slacks were old favorites, too, worn soft and almost see-through if they’d been white instead of grey. Also light-weight enough to drape well and let a breeze through, even on a dance floor. Sam hadn’t had a lot of time for disco during the actual era – too much time deployed out – but hell, he could bust out the moves now. His flexibility was still damn good, he loved losing himself in music and his body, and his target liked an older man who could shake it.
The feel of eyes on his assets was definitely familiar. The hostile eyes on his back, now…. Those were a little too familiar, too.
Sam walked off the dance floor, ending up leaning against the bar. “Mojito. Top shelf rum, thanks.” He smiled appreciatively at the bartender's biceps in that snug t-shirt and dropped the change in the tip jar, too. The first sip was a joy of mint, lime, and good rum that let him tilt his head back in pleasure... and gave him a chance to use the mirror behind the bar to scan the room.
Thom Garcia – who'd added the H to the short form; maybe he’d noticed the number of gay white Thoms? -- sauntered towards him, and Sam took another sip, his head tilting back as he swallowed to expose his throat. Out of the corner of his eyes, Sam saw a familiar face and damn near choked on his drink.
He hauled his mind back to his target, smiling at Thom when he crowded Sam’s hip to order his own drink, a Gold Rush that let Sam say honestly, “I haven’t heard anyone order that in a long while. Maybe I’ll get that next,” and start seducing his mark. It wasn’t difficult; the poor guy’s family didn’t like having a pansexual in the family, and Sam was perfectly happy to stroke his ego and parts farther south, as well.
One of the best parts of working with other professionals was the nonchalance of their reaction if Sam came in with bitemarks on the back of his shoulders or sitting a little tenderly. Sam and Mikey didn’t say anything if Fiona turned up with intel and a second shade of lipstick on her lips, for that matter, and both Sam and Fi were practiced at applying Biofreeze patches to Mikey for things other than fights. You did what you had to, and sex could be a lot easier and more fun than a fight. Could be. Sometimes, Sam just wanted a good donnybrook, but he was getting older and starting to prefer sex more.
Of course, one of the other joys of working with professionals was having backup. Sam came out of Thom’s upscale apartment building at three in the morning, intel securely tucked into the hidden compartment of his equally favorite leather belt, and found that not only was Fiona waiting to give him a ride, but she’d also trapped Captain Franklin Clay, Army SF -- ‘deceased’ -- against a car. Her back was safely to a wall, hair clipped up out of the way, and her favorite Glock pointed at his most vulnerable point. Well, other than Clay’s ego.
Sam nodded to her, loose-limbed and relaxed from a very nice night. He might have to pick up Thom again sometime; nothing wrong with an occasional sugar daddy in his succession of sugar mamas. “Hey, Fi. Good catch. Hey, Clay. You always fall for the dangerous ones. Where is Roque anyway? And do I know you’re here, or do we all just dodge each other?”
“I need that intel,” Clay rasped out and frowned when both Fiona and Sam laughed in his face.
“Hell, even if you were still in,” Sam said amused, “the answer would still be ‘fuck off.’ I’d just add ‘sir’ for appearances.”
Fiona smiled at Clay, sharp-edged as the blades hidden in her boots. “And I don’t give men like you anything, certainly not for free.”
“Men like me,” he said, disbelieving. “You’re running around with a former SEAL.”
“I mean the ones with egos larger than their guns,” Fiona said sweetly. “And if you want to stay off people’s radar, you’ll leave us alone. We know who’s tailing us and which agencies they work for. You don’t.”
Sam just shrugged when Clay stared at him. “She’s not wrong. Bye, Clay.” He scanned the streets and rooftops while Fiona watched Clay’s irritated retreat. “Huh. Wonder what they wanted.”
“They?” Fiona asked. “His partner seemed annoyed when he smiled at me too often.”
“Which partner, Roque? Big Black guy, way, way too many knives?” Sam checked. “I mean, more than you on a really bad job, Fi.”
“I’ll keep an eye out, but no, I haven’t seen him yet. Female partner, taller than I am even in heels,” Fi said. “Looked Afro-Latina. Slim, beautiful, dangerous. Dance and martial arts training.”
“And jealous? I’ll just stick to guys ‘til they’re gone,” Sam told her. “And that was Franklin Clay, Special Forces officer and trouble magnet. Time to go to ground until after the explosions.”
Fiona nodded and unlocked the car. “Literal?” she asked; pure professional curiosity, it sounded like.
“Probably,” Sam sighed. “Last I heard, the sections of the team that were ‘dead,’ included his best tech guy; Roque, who’s a little crazy,” and he let Fi hear that Sam personally thought it might be more than ‘a little,’ “and very good with knives. Their engineer and getaway driver is a genius with engines, more than usual for the Charlies, and honest to God, Fi, Cougar is the kind of sniper that every mercenary team would pay five times the regular rate to get.”
“Ah. We’ll just hit the all-night grocery, then,” Fiona said. (Sam winced at the idea of shopping with her when he just wanted sleep and his own bed, but she wasn’t wrong.). "A few days in will let us catch up on all those little maintenance tasks: guns to clean, burner phones to adapt, spare bugs to build, knives to sharpen... how good is he?” she asked more seriously. “This Roque.”
Sam shrugged, aware his smile was a little tight. “I’d have taken him on when I was ten years younger, Fi, but I might not have won. They’re a very good core team, but if they’re staying dead, I’ll be glad when they’re gone. Any idea who the woman was?”
“She might fit a description,” Fi admitted. “I hope not. Al-Fadhil ran guns and drugs; if this is his daughter, she’s recently orphaned, unpredictable, and as dangerous as she’s lovely.”
“Time to stay in it is,” Sam agreed. “Well. Beer, food, and fresh cards.” He shrugged. “I don’t mind safehouses when the company’s this good.”
Fiona glanced over at the stop light, a rare, real smile on her face. “Every now and then, Sam Axe, I actually like you.”
“Eh, don’t tell Mikey. More fun watching him try to make sure we’ll play well with others,” Sam told her, grinning widely. He’d go back out for some more Gold Rushes and pretty boys later.
When it was safe.