Because she's kneeling and her captor is standing, her captor sounds further away than he knows the man should. But Walter's toys are known for excellence above and beyond their call and thus he can still hear every word: "Who are you working for? What was your team here to find?" He inhales and waits for her response.

Amana waited for Operations to finish his discussion with Birkoff. He barely acknowledged her as he strode away, which was well and good to—

"You're on a mission tonight."

Nodding, she turned and met Operations' clear blue eyes. "Yes, sir."

"Tangiers. Fifteen-hundred."

Tangiers? "Yes, sir."

He nodded and walked away, apparently satisfied. Like something tied to a string, she couldn't help glancing up at the perch where she could barely make out the head of a tech working at the wall.

"Standing there for your health, Amana?" Birkoff with his usual air of distraction and annoyance.

She snorted, turning toward him. "Something like that," she said, stepping up on the platform.

He looked up expectantly. "Got something for me?"

"I'm actually hoping you might have something for me. Do me a favor, Birkoff?"

"Depends. What do I get out of it?"

"What…do you want?" she asked, brow raised.

Birkoff leaned back and chuckled. "You're still new."

"Well this was a lot easier when I was in prison. You traded information for smokes, porn and Dove soap. Gotta admit, I don't know what the commodity is in the Section."

Leaning back in his chair, Birkoff threw his arms behind his head and rested it in his laced fingers. "Let me enlighten you."

*

Take a deep breath.

"Boyd, Alvarez, Joyce and Mercer: move out."

Let it out.

Murmurs of assent filled the van. Michael glanced at Birkoff who answered the unspoken question: "Our coverage is good. Guards still in regular circuit."

"Chatterji, Ha—"

"Hold on, Michael. Someone new is on the grid."

"A guard?"

"Can't tell. They've got their full roster." Birkoff paused, waiting, watching the colors move on his screen, his brows furrowed. "Whoever he is, he's walking with the our guy in sector four, North quadrant. They're both slowing…" He looked up and over his laptop at Michael. "Looks like their having some kind of conference."

"Can you tap into their comm?"

"See what I can…mmm…got it."

Fuzzy static filled the van and then pidgin of French, English and the native languages of both men. They listened for more than a minute before Michael softly declared it to be "an informal debriefing. It's unlikely that they'll be going anywhere soon but keep an eye on them."

"Already on it."

"Chatterji, Hall, Sewell and Cortez: move out. Chatterji, keep an eye out for movement in North-Four."

"Noted," came the hushed reply. "Will do. Is our coverage still good?"

Birkoff nodded, saying, "You're go."

Silence filled the van as each man sat watching his own display of the warehouse's interior and along the perimeter of the grounds. And they waited. Birkoff began tapping out a nameless tune with the end of the stylus he'd had stuck behind his ear. Instead of ordering him to stop, Michael breathed.

In.

"Michael, that spare hostile is breaking off from the guard. He's on the move."

Out.

He checked the position of the people he'd already sent in. They were moving as planned, drawing fire out towards the perimeter of the building. "Will that affect the third team?"

"Don't think so, but not sure. This guy's an unknown variable," Birkoff said, though he was sure Michael didn't need the explanation. "My bet would be that he'll go to their central location, probably to the security desk, and try to figure out what's going on."

"Switch the comm. channel."

"Done."

"Shinn, ready your team." Michael got back a murmur of assent. Through the comm. he could hear the soft rustle of clothing as it echoed in the concrete tunnel where Shinn and his five teammates were waiting for Michael's command.

"Birkoff, where's the variable?"

"Almost at the security desk."

"Get that, Shinn?"

"Yes, Michael. Taking him out will divert us from our plan."

"Send Reyes."

"But—"

"Send Reyes."

"Yes, Michael. Reyes, you heard him. Take point – you're out first."

"Have Helmsly lay down cover."

The van filled with the sound of softly muttered assent and movement as Shinn's team reorganized itself according to Michael's modified orders.

"Michael," Birkoff broke in, "he's in position."

"Okay Reyes, Helmsly, you guys are go."

Michael turned to look at Birkoff who was already nodding. "Shinn, move the rest of your team."

"Yes sir."

"Birkoff, kill the comm. Any word from the other two teams?"

"Not yet," he answered in the measured way that said he didn't expect that to be true for very long. "So far they're maintaining radio silence per the mission specs."

"Good. How's our coverage?"

"Still tight."

"How long until Reyes and Helmsly rendezvous with the variable?"

"Approximately seven minutes."

"And before Shinn's team reach the target?"

"Eleven minutes."

"Is there a point of egress for Reyes and Helmsly?"

Birkoff shook his head. "Well…okay, yeah technically there is, but it's way outside mission specs. Really take us out of our way to pick'em up. We might lose coverage."

Michael seemed to consider that for a moment, then said, "Can you map out a route by which they can rendezvous with either us or their team once their objective is complete?"

"Sure. I can try at least."

"Good. Neither is acceptable collateral damage. Switch to the primary comm. channel."

Gunfire instantly filled the van. Michael continued to calmly study the real-time diagram of movement within the building. Birkoff, on the other hand, flinched when the fighting seemed eerily close to home.

As Michael watched, red dots – Boyd, Alvarez, Joyce, Chatterji, Hall and Sewell – were steadily forcing green dots – the site's guards – out from the center of the building to its perimeter. From below blue dots – Shinn's team – were traveling the length of an underground cement tube who's original purpose had probably been as an escape route. Shinn's team would infiltrate the newly deserted center of the building and download files, steal plans and prototypes before going back down and continuing back out the rear of the building. Beyond which Michael and Birkoff and another transport van waited to bring them back to Section One. Two of the blue dots were separated from the larger body of five and were already moving on the first floor: Reyes and Helmsly. When he'd figured one out, Birkoff would feed them a new way out of the building and they would rejoin their team. Then they'd destroy the building and anyone in it.

From within the white-lined outline of the building, green dots suddenly appeared and engulfed the first two teams. Two red dots blinked out. Radio silence was broken. The staccato of gunfire became a deafening roar. Another red dot blinked out.

"Birkoff, kill the comm."

Silence dropped like something tangible.

In.

Michael redirected his attention to the blue dots. Shinn's team was almost out. Green dots advanced on their position. The two blue dots that represented Reyes and Helmsly were lagging behind. Michael could hear Birkoff softly giving them directions. They were back in the concrete tunnel and gaining ground. Someone in Shinn's team fell, blinking out of existence.

They cleared the building.

Out.

"Birkoff, bring back comm. Shinn, prepare the charges."

"Reyes and Helmsly aren't out."

"I know. Prepare the charges. Birkoff, ETA on their exit?"

"Two minutes, Michael."

"Not enough time."

"I swear they'll be out in two minutes."

"The security force was close behind Shinn and his team. We don't have two minutes."

There was tension in the air, as if Birkoff were going to say something else but he didn't.

"Charges set."

"Get out of there, Shinn. Birkoff, on my mark." Counting down in his head from thirty, Michael watched his screen.

At trois – three – Reyes and Helmsly, still in the concrete tunnel, cleared the outer wall of the building. "Mark."

The van shivered with the force of the explosions. Mobile teams had placed the lion's share of the charges earlier in the week at less conspicuous times, leaving Michael and his teams to rig the otherwise useless C4 and set them off.

Two minutes later Shinn pulled open the door of the van. He and two others climbed in. They were driving off seconds later.

*

With trembling hands she turned on the faucets in the bathtub and then the shower. She'd held up fine on the way back to Section and during the debrief. Mostly numb, it hadn't been hard. She'd already showered at Section, getting off the worst of the dust and rubble after the explosion. She'd even done okay on the drive home. It had meant breaking a few speeding laws, but she hadn't thought she could manage slow and steady; it took too much concentration. The shakes had started somewhere between climbing up the stairs and putting her key in the door, however. And they wouldn't stop.

She pulled off her clothes – leaving them where they fell, yanking things off roughly when they didn't give on the first try. There was bruise forming on the lower part of her ribs from where that guy had jabbed her with the butt of his rifle but it could wait until tomorrow. Or later today. She wasn't sure of the time, only that she had driven in the mostly dark on mostly deserted streets.

Nearly naked she went jerkily back into the bathroom and tested the water. Scalding.

She pulled off the last of her clothes and, trembling still, stepped into the hot, hot water.

It made no sense. She was supposed to have gone on a mission in Algiers that night with Elsa, not Tangiers. She was supposed to have laid down simple ground cover not been sent on a side mission to take out a hostile variable. She was supposed to have died – and yet she lived.

Despite what Birkoff had told her, once she'd confirmed that Operations hadn't had a slip of the tongue, that she had in fact been pulled from Elsa's Algerian mission to the one Michael was handling in Tangiers… She'd known. And she'd prepared herself. She hadn't lied to Michael; she didn't have a death wish. If it was going to come, however, then she was going to be ready for it.

But it hadn't come. And she hadn't prepared for that as an option.

Hands braced against the shower walls, the hot spray sluiced down her body to combat the tooth-chattering cold.

*

Though she's been effectively immobilized for some time she has the adrenaline and endorphin equivalent in her body for someone in a fight. Her breathing is as erratic and unsteady as the man with the submachine gun trained on her. There is sweat tracing prickly paths down her face and pooling under the black fabric of her clothes. Her body wants to move, is tense with inactivity, thrumming with potential energy. She says, "What do you want to know?"

Walter took the panel from Amana. "If ya don't mind me saying, you don't look so good, Sugar. Don't sound so hot either."

She gave him a weary half-smile and rasped, "That's cause I didn't sleep so good, Walter."

"Not staying up worried about handing in your panel late, were ya Sugar? You know I wouldn't write ya up for something like that," he purred.

Amana pulled the cuffs of her black turtleneck sweater over her hands as she leaned forward on the high counter in front of her. "If you were…thirty years younger, Walter..."

"Don't tempt me, Amana," he said with a chuckle. "You'll give this old man a false sense of hope. Now tell me why you couldn't sleep last night. Seemed like a pretty straightforward mission. Figured it'd be enough to send ya right off."

"Maybe, but I got bruised ribs from where the hostile got me with his sub."

"And what was Helmsly doing?"

Amana smiled. "Eric shot the guy."

"And your voice? You sound like you've been livin' a hard life, girl."

"Already been down in the infirmary. Said I'd inhaled too much dust from the collapsing tunnel. I ran into Eric and he sounds pretty rough too."

"Well I saw Helmsly too, Sug, and he didn't sound like you."

Amana frowned. "Walter…you're starting to sound like my mother. Better. She wouldn't've cared."

He snorted and turned away. "Take an interest in a body and they go and turn you into a mother hen."

Laughing again, she stood up from the counter. "I just came in to return the panel, Walter. I'm headed out. I'm pretty sure I have some down time so I'll see you in a couple of days."

"Yeah, yeah. Rile me up and leave me flat. Just like a woman."

That got another smile from her. "See ya around, Walter."

"One second, Sugar. Before I forget…"

*

"You wanted to see me, Michael?"

He looked up from his computer screen. "Yes. Come in, Amana."

Dipping her head slightly, she tugged at the hem of her black turtleneck sweater, closed the door behind her. The swish-swish of her long denim skirt was loud in his small office as she took a seat. Her eyes tracked him avidly as he reached into his desk and pulled out a small device. He touched it.

They eyed each other: Michael calmly, Amana… He wasn't sure what he saw.

She leaned forward so that her elbows rested on her knees and her mouth was hidden behind the curled fingers of her fists. "Why didn't I die in Tangiers?" There was a rough quality to her voice.

"You were expecting to," he said calmly.

Amana pressed her lips together and nodded. She brought a hand up to smooth hair that was lying perfectly flat.

"Why?"

"Why not?" she demanded, pulling on the sleeve end of her turtleneck.

To Michael she looked more like an anxious collegiate than a skilled killer. But he knew better than many how easily looks deceived. "How did you come to be in Section?"

Her expression changed instantly. Her hoarseness became more pronounced. "Can't you find that out on your own?"

Michael slid a yellow manila folder off his desk and held it out for her to take. Half rising from her seat she reached across the open space and did as he began to speak: "When you were sixteen you were charged with the second degree murder of your father and his lover."

Amana looked up from the contents of the file to give him sharp, weary eyes. "You did read my file. The whore my father was sleeping with killed my baby brother, Julio," she said softly around the roughness of her voice.

Ignoring her, he went on: "You were found to be temporarily insane and were sent to a low profile juvenile detention center for five years. During the last two years of your sentence you were transferred to a comparable women's detention center. While you were there your mother was sentenced to three years for embezzlement.

"Through some clerical mishap the family relation was not noted and you were placed in the same detention center. Some four months after her sentencing, six months to the day of your release, you attempted to kill her without apparent reason. The clerical error came to light and you were evaluated by the prison psychologist. You were declared to suffer from mild psychosis but nothing that would warrant the attack on your mother. Due to the premeditated nature of the attack, the mother-daughter relation and your history, you were sentenced to life imprisonment. Section recruited you a month later. You had just turned twenty."

Amana nodded. She was clutching the sleeves of her turtleneck sweater in her hand and biting her lower lip. Clearly she had something to say about Michael's cut and dried recitation of her history but was debating whether or not to do so. Michael sat back and waited.

Not very long.

"My mother didn't want anything to do with Julio. I was the one up in the middle of the night with him. I changed him. I fed him. He was mine. She didn't want him in the first place. She thought she could keep my father interested with a son," she sneered. "It was why she'd had me, but she'd screwed up having a girl. But he never wanted my mother, he just wanted the prestige that came with marrying her so he slept around all the time."

The first rush of it out, she paused as if giving him space to object to her outpouring of vitriol. Michael waited.

Not long.

"I don't know what possessed her to try again. I was fifteen when she had Julio."

"His birth certificate says his name was Ignatius."

Amana scowled. "Ignatius Julio, after my father. No one called him that, just her when he was around. Even my father called him Julio when he thought of him at all. She was just so…" Amana shook her head slowly. "Julio was my heart. Do you know what that means?" she asked, eyes narrowing. When he didn't respond, she went on, "Where I'm from, when you say someone is your heart you mean …they're everything. Different from a lover, more than a friend. Like a part your body you can't live without. You'd do anything for them just like you'd do anything for yourself. 'Cause that's your heart. And when I found Julio dead in his crib, when I knew the babysitter and my father were just upstairs I made up my mind that they had to die too. My baby, my heart, was not going to go cold in a crib and them not suffer."

She took a moment, sucking in her bottom lip to compose herself.

Michael watched. And waited.

"I can't believe the lawyer got me off. I thought…first degree for sure. I didn't want to die but I didn't care either. Then my mother was put in that center with me and I had a purpose. But I screwed it up. Then Section came for me and I had a new purpose. I needed that."

Michael let silence fill the small office, focusing on his breathing, reviewing what he knew of her file in his head. "Elsa Perlov is your handler."

Suspicious, she nodded. "She's good people."

"What happened to your original handler, O'Neal?"

"Died on a mission."

"You cancel him?"

"You've got my file," she said, seeming more composed. "I was never written up."

"You cancelled him."

They stared at each other from across his desk.

"He was killing us," she rasped softly.

"How so?"

Amana shifted in her seat. "He was a bad team leader. He took unnecessary risks with our lives."

"You could have had him written up."

"Did."

"Then you took matters into your own hands?"

"No…a terrorist cell did that for us."

"So you convinced the other members of your team to abandon O'Neal and let him be cancelled."

A half-smile tugging at one side of her mouth, she rasped, "I didn't convince anyone to do anything. Why do you wanna know?"

"Madeline thinks you could make a good team leader. She thought I should study your profile and that I should study you."

The half-smile faded as Amana's brow furrowed. "I know Madeline wants me to move out of Field Op status. She wanted you to…review me?" To his silence she said, "She was the one that took me off the Algerian mission to Tangiers?"

"Yes."

"You didn't…"

"No."

"But you let me believe—"

"You believed what you wanted to."

Amana slumped back in her seat. "But what about the whole thing with my family? With Julio? Why did you let me go on like that?"

"You needed to say it, so I let you."

He watched her mull over his words and, now, her feelings. Her jaw clenched. She frowned. He waited.

"So you let me vent…because I needed to…so we could get on with the rest of this...whatever it is?"

He waited.

"That's exactly what you did, isn't it?"

Michael touched the small device on his desk. "How did you get the rest of your team to help you cancel O'Neal?"

She slapped the arm of her chair. "I didn't kill O'Neal," she rasped shrilly. "I didn't get anyone to kill him. Cancel him. We didn't protect him, but that was a group decision. I wasn't the only one who saw how he was. He was dangerous to everyone. He'd already got August killed. I'm so sorry that none of us wanted to be next!"

Michael regarded her coolly. Her golden skin was flush, eyes flashing and body rigid as she sat forward in her chair. Dealing with Operations and Madeline would take more finesse than she had, but it was her ability to lead that was in question. Not in very much question. Everything else could be taught.

She was still sitting stiff in the chair when he said, "I'm going to recommend you to start Cold Op training."

Amana narrowed her eyes. "I don't want to be a Cold Op. I already told Madeline that."

"That will be all, Amana."

Eyes flashing, she stood slowly, favoring her left side. "I'm no one's team leader," she said softly around her rough voice. "And you're not as cold as you like to think you are."

Michael's hand hovered over the small device.

"I saw you, remember. You have that file that says in some roundabout way that I got eight people to turn on one guy—"

He touched it.

"—well I've got a mental picture of a half-crazed father desperate to protect the family he loves. You're heart's not dead. And I am no one's team leader."

*

There's a note in her voice he doesn't know how to interpret. Unable to see her face, her body gives no possible double meaning to her words. "What do you want to know?" she's said. It's disconcerting not to know whether she means it or not. He takes a slow deep breath and fixes her bent head in the crosshairs of his sight as the world drops away.

"Let me put my pants on!"

Amana quickly unbuttoned the faded, oversized man's shirt she was using as an apron over her black tank top and felt it slip down her bare arms. She left it where it fell as she passed from the tiny kitchen into the somewhat larger dining area. She pulled her jeans off the back of the nearest chair where she'd left them to wait, and took a moment to step into them. From the half-wall separating the dining area from the snug apartment she picked up the Browning Hi-Power, clicking the safety off as she entered what passed as her foyer and office-space. She glanced up at the clock over her computer desk and frowned. The pernil in the oven was supposed to be ready soon. Hopefully the Browning was overkill, but just in case…

A sharp right turn in the foyer and an admonishment that "I'm coming!" had her walking down a hallway as long as the foyer was wide – which made it dim without the overhead light on – toward her door. Tactically it wasn't her ideal setup: Though there was space on either side of her door, for no architectural reason she could pinpoint, she would have preferred more. She would have preferred the door to be set into a long wide wall for maneuverability's sake, but you made do with what you had. Or so O'Neal had said that first day as he'd looked her up and down.

For about two feet on the hinge-side of the door, on the right, the hall opened out another five inches or so. Amana squeezed herself into that space. If someone forced the door open it would swing harmlessly in front of her position while offering her a modicum of protection. It could also be effectively used to pin her down, but it was a risk she was willing to take.

Switching the Browning from her right to her left hand, she awkwardly reached out and placed the muzzle against the door at about where she thought she'd hit a man's center body mass. She spoke to the facing wall when she called out, "Who is it?"

"Birkoff."

"Who's with you?"

There was a sound of shoes being scuffed against the tile outside her door and some shifting of bodies. She hoped they'd make up their minds soon. One handed and in an awkward position, not to mention holding her weapon in the wrong hand, was a strain on her arm.

"It's a surprise, Sugar."

Smiling and shaking her head, she let the Browning drop to her side and stepped out of her corner to disengage the locks. She half-stepped back into her corner to let the men in unobstructed – and, theoretically, still be able to shoot unwanted guests.

"Walter, you old coot, what're you guys doing…here…?" The words slipped from her lips as if they had been forgotten as a third, broad body filled the hall. Amana felt her trigger finger itch, if only as an instinctual reaction to her surprise. It took her longer than it should have to lock the door, but that was because she wasn't good at hiding her thoughts from others. Better to let the door do it for her. She'd always lacked, or disdained, a certain amount of subtlety. Sometimes that served her. A lot of times, especially now in Section, it didn't. She was certain this moment fell into the latter category.

They were ranged out from the foyer back into the hall when Amana turned around. Thumbing the safety on the Browning, she held it lightly by her side as she slipped past one man then the other until she too was in the foyer facing the three of them. "Well this is unexpected." She trained her eyes on Birkoff, standing front and center. Her estimation of him was falling far and fast. "I thought the deal was making dinner. For you. To have at Section."

Shifting on his feet under Amana's scrutiny, he pushed his glasses up and started to mutter something about the terms of their agreement.

Walter took pity on the younger man – or perhaps on his own hunger – and stepped in front of him. "Don't blame Birkoff, Sugar. I heard about the arrangement you two had going and I couldn't help but think of homemade arroz y habichuelas con pollo, flautas—"

"Flautas are Mexican, Walter. I'm Dominican."

"Okay, well then plantainos, cubanos—"

"Cubans are sandwich, Walter. Or a bunch of disgruntled ex-pats."

"Look, girl, I'm hungry. What do you want from me? Nice music by the way." He placed his right hand over his belly, swung his hips and started singing along.

Amana laughed at that, shaking her head. "I guess I want you to make yourself comfortable. Gimme your coats. I'll put them on the bed."

"Ooh—"

"Don't start, you," she broke in as she draped Birkoff's battered army surplus coat over her left arm.

"Expecting company?"

Amana looked up and past Walter's head, then followed the pointed stare back to her left hand. She'd transferred the Browning there so she could take the coats. Eyebrow raised, she reached for Walter's coat. "No. Hence the weapon."

He was ready with his coat when she reached him and he draped it over her laden arm.

The Browning she put back in it's spot on the half-wall dividing her small apartment when she emerged from the bedroom. She stood facing the half-wall, and thus the tiny dining area and the small kitchen beyond it, and took a deep breath. She went into the living room – a good sized space all things considered – and smiled at her uninvited guests. "Anybody want anything? Like I said, I wasn't expecting company and dinner won't be done for a bit still."

Three pairs of male eyes turned on her and she was suddenly aware that she was alone in a small apartment with three men. Sure only two of them could have been considered a threat, and of them only one whom she thought dangerous – but it was bad street sense to be the only woman in a room full of men unless you knew them very, very well.

"Any of you hombres want something to drink?" she asked, arms loose at her sides. "I've got water, fruit juice, beer, sel—"

"Beer'd be lovely, Sugar."

Amana rolled her eyes. "How'd I guess. Anyway, I also have a bottle of Merlot I've been wanting to pop so if we have any takers…" She offered them a half-smile and waited.

"What kind of juice do you have?" Birkoff asked, pushing his glasses up on his face.

Amana gave him a look but said, "Apple, orange…this fruit smoothie thing… Doesn't really go with pernil though. Save it for dessert."

His face blanked. "Oh. Uh…"

"I'll start you off with water. And—"

"The Merlot. Please."

"Should've guessed," she muttered jamming her hands into her back pockets. Amana turned on her heel and strode out of the room, tossing over her shoulder, "So is there anyone else I should know about."

Walter coughed.

Amana's shoulders drew together.

"Well now that ya mention it, Sug—"

"Whatever happened to privacy and plausible deniability?" she demanded, rounding on him.

"Actually—"

"Shut it, Birkoff." Her personal estimation of him had fallen far. "Who else is coming to this impromptu house party?"

"Just Walter's girlfriend."

Amana glowered at him and Birkoff remembered that he'd been adjourned from speaking.

"All right, Walter, since you apparently also live here you get to help me serve. C'mon…get up…"

The old man didn't need the encouragement. Not if the gleam in his eye meant anything. "Been meanin' t'tell ya, Amana…this is some place ya got. Kitchen's a mite tiny—"

"Don't you ever bring Michael to my house ever again."

Walter raised his hands; whether in self-defense or surrender she didn't care. "Whoa, Sugar, what's this about?" His voice dropped to match her hissed whisper. "You were the one who said—"

"I know what I said. That wasn't an open ticket to use me as your…your…your group therapy session! This is my house! Michael is dangerous—"

"He's not dangerous. And I thought you weren't afraid of him."

"No, but I am practical. He didn't like that I was prying, and even you have to admit he's been fu…" She wrestled with the words. "…freakin' unstable. How is having him over for dinner going to help with that?!"

"Well it seemed like a good idea at the time!"

Amana stepped out of his personal space. "I know Michael is important to you. I know you're concerned and that you're just trying to help him but…" She shook her head. "I only cared what happened to him because you care. Otherwise I'd be more happy to stay the heaven away from him and have him stay away from me. And it has nothing to do with being afraid of him, though I'll admit to having a healthy fear. Look, if it hadn't been for you it's likely our paths wouldn't've ever crossed and I'd've been perfectly happy with that."

Turning away before Walter could reply, Amana went to the stove and checked on the pernil.

"Smells good, Sugar."

"It should. It's roast pork." She stood. "If you get the bottle water and beers out of the fridge I'll grab the wine and glass."

"Sure thing."

Amana followed Walter back into the living room carrying the promised bottle of wine and a single glass. She set them down in front of Michael as Walter groaned and complained about having to bend over. "No one told you to use the tray," she teased. "I thought real men didn't use serving trays."

"Yeah well this real man had a momma who raised him right," was his answer as he fished the bottle opener from his Swiss Army knife. "And a daddy in the army."

That got a laugh out of two of them. Smiling, Birkoff pushed back his glasses with one hand and raised his bottled water with the other. "To a good idea despite bad timing."

Walter and Amana groaned. "To better speeches," Walter said.

"To better speeches!"

The doorbell rang as they touched bottles and glass. Amana knocked back a quick gulp of her beer then placed it softly on the coffee table. Indicating that they should be quiet, she stood. A short detour to the dining area found the Browning in her hands and her striding toward the door. "One minute."

It occurred to her, not for the first time, that perhaps she shouldn't have the music so loud. As it was, half her floor was probably wondering who or what a querida was. But just as it'd been too late when she'd gone to open the door the first time – well it couldn't be helped.

"Who is it?"

"Jackie… Walter's girlfriend?"

Amana glanced back at the old man from her tight corner. He nodded. "Let'er in, Sugar. Dinner won't be nearly as much fun without her."

Michael said softly, "Something's burning."

Swearing, Amana jumped up and rushed out of the room.

Walter covered Birkoff's ears when the swearing became both colorful and artistic. "I think you're too young for this, kid."

Scowling, the young man yanked his friend hands from his ears. Jackie, sitting on the day bed that served as both a couch and guest bed, clapped her hands and laughed. Which did little to improve Birkoff's mood. "I can't even understand her," he protested.

"And that's what makes it so funny!" she snorted.

Amana returned, expletives still dripping, muttered, from her mouth. "Well the mofongo is a lost cause—"

Walter groaned.

"But the rice will be ready in a minute. We can eat then." She turned on her heel and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

True to her word, Walter, Birkoff and Jackie were serving themselves five minutes later, laughing as they tried to maneuver in a kitchen not meant to see so much activity at once. Watching, Michael stood just outside the threshold in the dark dining area. Amana, he knew, stood beyond him, leaning on the support pillar of the half-wall that divided the dining area from the rest of the apartment. The Browning was still there. Or it had been when he'd passed her into the dark space, but he hadn't heard her move and—

"Your turn, Michael."

He took the plate Walter was offering and murmured a soft thank you.

"You too, Sug."

Birkoff studiously avoided his eyes when he passed.

"Cook eats last, Walter."

Jackie gave him a bright, quick, smile.

Amana and Walter were still arguing good-naturedly, from what Michael could hear, as he began filling up his plate, surprising himself with his hunger. It sounded, though, as if Walter had already begun eating. He glanced over the door of the refrigerator to see her standing in the half dark, shapes in the dining area gleaming dully.

They passed each other wordlessly when he was done.

*

"Didn't know you had a cat, Amana."

"I don't," she said as the big white tom leapt up into her lap, sniffed at her still greasy hands then butted against Jackie's arm. "I pet sit for a neighbor down the hall. She has Cofax here and Zippy, a corgi. They spent most of last month in my house and now think they own the joint. Hey…watch it, senor." The cat had begun licking at the plate in her lap. "Zippy would be in here too, but he can't do the balcony the way Cofax can." She looked up from the cat's green eyes. "No one here's allergic, right? I can just send him back—"

"Oh no!" Jackie protested as she moved closer to stroke his white fur. "Don't send him back. We've all had our shots."

A gleam in his eye, Walter countered with a quick, "Speak for yourself. I'm sure there's a few shots I've missed."

Birkoff snorted. "Unlikely. Has he ever told you about the time in Panama…"

While the cat made himself comfortable across Jackie's lap – letting her stroke his white fur, nipping at her fingers when she failed to scratch him in a way that befitted a guest in his home – Michael stood and began collecting empty glasses and bottles, plates and utensils, piling them up on one of the trays. When Amana half-rose from the daybed-turned-sofa to help him, he waved her away with his still free hand.

A moment later a burst of raucous laughter sent the white cat leaping from Jackie's lap to twine around Michael's ankles. He shifted his hips to keep from tripping as the cat managed to wind around his legs despite his forward motion. It gave up, however, to dart for the kitchen. He followed. The sound of Walter's and Birkoff's competitive storytelling rose and fell like an incoming tide lapping at his back.

The cat was sitting very determinedly in front of a central cupboard by the floor. Michael ignored it, noting the odd way sound from the living room was muted in the kitchen despite their proximity, setting the dirty dishes into the sink instead. Only then did he bend down to satisfy the cat. Who promptly darted into the dim dining area, glowing like a fuzzy beacon as he hunched in the dark.

Following, Michael was reminded that Simone had wanted a cat but worried about what would happen to it if one of them died, and that Elena also wanted a cat, but was allergic. They were considering getting a dog for Adam when he was old enough…

He paused in pouring the dry pet food. The cat, Cofax, butted against his hand.

He resumed pouring.