1. Desert

The sweat runs in rivulets down her brow, between her breasts. It wets the backpack and makes her shirt stick and pull at her skin when she moves. She reties the purple bandanna around her head for the thousandth time that day and sighs. If only it was ten degrees cooler. If only there was a breeze instead of this still heat.

And then she sees it: a rising cloud of dust on the horizon, moving closer and shimmering in the heat. At first she thinks it is another mirage. But as it moves closer she can no longer pretend. Bringing the binoculars up to her eyes she tries to get a good view of the approaching vehicle.

She readies the rifle. Aims for the road where it comes closest to her blind, and waits. Time seems to slow, or maybe it is just the heat stretching the distance unreliably. The second liter of water is almost gone; she finishes it off in two gulps, wipes her mouth, and goes back to waiting.

Finally it is in range. She fires, knocking out two tires. But then there is a third shot, not her own, and the driver slumps forward over the wheel.

My life is never simple, she muses, as she takes off towards the truck, gun in hand.

There is no one. No sign of anyone. But they could have approached unseen from the other side. She walks slowly, gun held out in front, finger at the trigger. She turns around to the back of the truck.

And sucks in a sudden breath.

"Agent Bristow."

The voice is smooth, crisp. Though he looks every bit as wilted as she feels. Sweat stains the armpits of his shirt and slicks his face.

"Sark."

She looks down the barrel of his gun, strangely unafraid. I'm just too hot to care…

"Fancy meeting you here."

"Why did you kill the driver?"

"Why did you shoot out the tires?" Sark countered.

They stood in silence a few more seconds, sizing each other up. Finally, something in her broke. She smiled, would have laughed if not for his intent face and the gun aimed at her heart.

"Look, neither of us wants to die here. So why don't we put down the guns and talk this through. Or at least beat each other to a pulp with our fists like civilized people."

"A wonderful idea, Sydney. You first."

Now she did laugh. Then she engaged the safety and threw the gun five feet to her right.

"Interesting."

For one moment she thought he would simply kill her. And she didn't particularly care. Anything to escape the blistering heat. But then he followed suit, and leaned up against the tailgate of the truck, examining her with cool eyes.

Sydney turned to the lock and picked it while Sark watched. When it finally came off, he stepped menacingly close, and simply helped lift the rolling door. Her mouth fell open at what was inside.

Absolutely nothing.

She ran around to the front, Sark at her heels, and they scrambled through the cab, tearing away at the two seats, at the driver's clothing. They even checked underneath, on top, and in the engine compartment.

"If this is someone's sick idea of a joke…"

"Your mother comes to mind."

"Don't talk about that woman."

"Perhaps this is the wrong truck," Sark offered.

"Or maybe someone got to it before we did."

"For Christ's sake!" Sark exploded, bringing the heel of his hand down sharply against the front quarterpanel. "I will kill someone if the entire miserable trip to this hellhole turns out pointless!"

Sydney ignored the outburst. She retrieved her gun and started walking back to her blind. She packed up the rifle and water bottles, all of them empty, hoisted the backpack onto her shoulders, and set off.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to Guadalajara," she called back. She sensed no threat from him, now. "There's a roach-infested hotel room and a twenty-year old mattress calling my name."

"Then we're headed in the same direction."

He caught up quickly, and fell into step beside her.

"Perhaps you'd care to join me for dinner?" he asked, his cool mask already back in place. "I have a business proposition if—"

"Shut up."

The rest of the walk passed in silence. At the edge of town, he headed west, while Sydney continued south to her hotel. She knew she wouldn't bother informing the CIA of their encounter. It would only lead to questions: why she didn't shoot him, kill him, capture him. Sydney didn't care to examine those answer quite yet. She was tired, so tired. And somehow she knew that the favor of omission would be reciprocated.