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The humid Mexico City night air hangs heavy with the scent of roasted corn and exhaust, but inside the gilded lobby of the hotel, the tension is razor-sharp. La Tigra moves like silk, her sequined dress catching the light as she tosses her head, faking a swoon directly into Amos Burke’s path. It is a theatrical distraction, designed to pull Amos away from Pablo Vasquez long enough for the peace treaty conspirators to snatch the pro-U.S. labor leader from the shadow of the velvet curtains.
Amos doesn't take the bait. With a swift, practiced side-step, he side-arms the nearest abductor into a marble pillar, his tailor-made suit jacket barely wrinkling as the syndicate’s plan unravels in a matter of seconds. cornered against the grand staircase, La Tigra drops the femme fatale facade entirely. Her mascara smudges as the tears spill over, her trembling voice confessing that Darvas—the ruthless mastermind behind the entire plot—is holding her family hostage to force her compliance.
With the local authorities sweeping in to haul Darvas and his remaining thugs away in cuffs, the chaos finally subsides into an exhausted quiet. Pablo wipes his brow with a silk handkerchief, looking at Amos with a blend of profound relief and newfound respect.
He gestures toward the broad staircase leading to the upper suites. "Come, Amos. A drink up in my room. We celebrate surviving the night, no?"
Just as Amos opens his mouth to respond, a sleek silver Rolls-Royce glides to a smooth halt at the curb. The rear door swings wide from the inside, a silent invitation cutting through the cool evening air. Pablo instantly steps forward, assuming the luxury vehicle is part of his own security detail, but Amos extends a steady, gentle hand, resting it firmly on the labor leader’s shoulder to stay him.
"No, no," Amos says smoothly, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "This is for me."
Pablo blinks, peering into the shadowed interior of the automobile. He cannot make out the driver in the gloom, but a knowing, wry grin spreads across his face, assuming Amos has some glamorous local beauty waiting in the back seat. He lets out a soft, theatrical sigh.
"Ah, of course. Always the pretty boys who are taken." He steps back, slapping Amos lightly on the arm. "Have fun, my friend!"
Amos slides into the plush leather interior, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. As the Rolls-Royce pulls away from the curb, merging into the late-night traffic of the Paseo de la Reforma, the driver shifts his gaze to the rearview mirror. Henry’s stoic expression softens, a spark of dry humor warming his steady eyes.
"Should I be worried about Mr. Vasquez, sir?" Henry asks, his tone laced with a quiet, half-joking jealousy that only Amos ever gets to hear. "He seemed rather fond of you."
Amos leans his head back against the seat, letting out a long, weary laugh that shakes his shoulders. "Don't even think about murder, Henry. It would take entirely too much paperwork to keep you out of jail. Besides, I just spent three long, agonizing days keeping Vasquez from getting killed. I'd hate to see all that hard work go to waste."
Henry lets out a low hum, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he navigates the city streets with effortless precision. The comfortable silence between them speaks volumes—a silent language forged over years of shared danger and unquestioning loyalty. Ever since Amos traded his police badge for Interpol, dragging Henry across continents had been his one non-negotiable condition. And in moments like this, away from the gunfire and political intrigue, the reason why is crystalline.
They pull up into the subterranean driveway of the Hotel Maria Isabel. Henry cuts the engine, stepping out to open the door for Amos, though his eyes remain lingeringly fixed on the former detective as Amos steps into the warm ambient light of the underground garage. Amos arches his back, letting out a deep, satisfying stretch that rolls the tension right out of his shoulders. The three days spent in a cramped jail cell with Pablo, followed by tonight's frantic shootout, have left every muscle in his body aching.
They walk into the hotel side-by-side, their strides matched. The lobby is quiet, save for the distant hum of the air conditioning and the soft clinking of glassware from the late-night lounge. They step into the empty elevator, the brass doors sliding shut to seal them in a small, private world moving slowly upward. Amos leans back against the mirrored wall, his eyes dark and heavy with affection as he looks at his companion. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of Henry's hip before sliding smoothly into the side belt loops of Henry's trousers, tugging him a half-inch closer.
"You know what I could really use right now?" Amos murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, rich and velvet.
Henry doesn't flinch. He steps directly into Amos's space, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I've already ordered the martinis up to the room, sir. Extra dry."
"Good man," Amos whispers.
He closes the tiny gap between them, pressing his lips to Henry's in a deep, lingering kiss that tastes of rain and lingering adrenaline. Henry's hand comes up to rest against the side of Amos's neck, his thumb brushing gently over his jawline, anchoring him. The lift hums gently beneath their feet, carrying them higher, and Amos only pulls back when the bell chimes softly to announce their arrival at their floor.