Chapter Two: Two Dead Men

When I woke up the next morning, my visitor was already about, picking through the rusty fridge.

"Yogurt and beer. Dull."

I rolled my eyes. "Good morning. Sorry, I don't usually have time to go grocery shopping. There should still be some pickles in the back. I'll get you a fork."

He turned to me, eyes flashing. "No. I'm not hungry."

"Then why. . .?" Did I even need to ask? Only half a day, and he was already getting on my nerves.

"Just learning about you."

"Funny," I replied, frowning. "I don't especially like people nosing around."

"Yes, I imagine you wouldn't, Mr. Westen." He smirked at me. "I'd ask you where you've been recently, but it's written all over you. Spies do have the most distinctive wear to their foreheads, you know. I'd imagine it's all the lying."

I sighed. It wasn't as if no one knew my background. I went to the fridge and pulled out a yogurt. Blueberry, today. Definitely.

"So," I asked, trying to keep things friendly, "who are you, exactly?"

He rolled his eyes. "Come now. You already have some idea, surely. You may not be as bright as I am, but you are well trained in observation, are you not?"

I nodded. "Yes. . . But see normally I ask people questions and they answer them. I don't like to have to dig when I don't have to."

"Oh, go on, then," he replied. "I'm curious to see what you make of me."

I sighed, staring at him critically. It wasn't as though I hadn't already made some observations. "You're English, London, if I had to guess, though something about you suggests that you didn't always live in the city. You aren't police, but Lestrade trusts you enough to send you on an international mission. Some sort of intelligence, then. Only no, you aren't trained. You do this for fun, don't you? Private detective, right?"

He snorted. "Not bad. Consulting detective. Sort of what you do, I suppose. Only I'm not such a bleeding heart."

I frowned. "What?"

"Oh, come now. You help people because you like doing the right thing. You think it'll make up for all the bad things you've done. And you've done a lot of bad things, haven't you? Don't try to deny it."

I glared at him as he continued.

"I solve crimes. Helping people is a little side benefit. I'm in it for the game."

I smiled, though inside I was about ready to throw him against the wall. He sounded too much like some of my more shady associates. Sociopath. One thing was for certain. I would have to keep an eye on him.

"Now then," he crooned, "when do we start?"

"As soon as Sam gets here," I replied, looking at my watch anxiously. He was late.

"Sorry I'm late, Mikey. Did you know that Thursdays are half-off mojito day at three different bars in this town? God, I love Miami!"

"Sam," I retorted, "did you get any new information?"

He looked at me, hurt I'd even had to ask.

"Yes and no. This guy covers his tracks really well."

I frowned. "Spill, Sam."

He looked anxiously at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

"He hasn't got anything I don't already know."

Sam frowned. "Hey, buddy, I just spent four hours tailing this guy. If you've got better information, maybe you should have told us ahead of time."

"Please. I could have pinned him in five minutes."

"Then why haven't you?" I could barely control the edge in my voice. Intelligent people I had no problem with. Arrogant sons of bitches were a different story.

Sherlock sighed. "Because I was on a tighter leash than normal. I've had. . . Setbacks."

"Mikey, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, Sam." We walked outside, although I was not particularly comfortable leaving Sherlock alone with all of my stuff.

Sam's face was dark with worry. It was a look I knew well. Something bad was happening.

"Look, brother, I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I really am."

"Sam. . ."

"No, let me finish. The thing is, this Hudson guy. . . He's a spy hunter, Mikey."

I inhaled harshly. Oh. Well that really wasn't something I wanted to hear.

Being a government operative has a lot of advantages. You get support, protection, and financial backing for your operations. But no one really likes getting spied on. Even protected spies are vulnerable to attack from people hired to do counterespionage. Most counterespionage is mild, passive. Sometimes it involves hacking or sabotage. But sometimes, if the person you've pissed off is really, really pissed off, he'll hire someone to kill you. And while the odds aren't great for your survival with the aid of your agency, they get much worse when you have no resources.

"Great," I said. "So what's the plan?"

"I donno. This guy catches wind you're a burned spy, though, and we might not get very many options."

I nodded. "I understand, Sam. But right now, we have a job to do."

I started to walk back up the stairs.

"Mike."

I stopped, looking back at him. "Yeah, Sam?"

"This Sherlock guy. Have you noticed the. . ." he gestured to his arms.

"Yeah." Track marks. The guy had a drug habit. That much was obvious. "But we need him. He's the best lead on Hudson we've got. . . apparently. And I don't trust him. I want to keep an eye on him. They could be working together."

"I don't like it," he retorted, eyes bright with caution.

"Neither do I, Sam. But it is what it is."

"What the hell are you doing with my soldering iron?" I bellowed, glaring at the detective.

"Experiment," he said simply.

"No." I walked over to him, trying not to pull a gun on him. Fiona said I needed to work on my anger issues - not that that wasn't the pot calling the kettle black or anything. "No experiments with my equipment in my house."

"This isn't your house. This is where you sleep."

I stared at him in disbelief. "No, I live here."

"But your house is elsewhere. Ah, yes, your mother's place."

"Have you been following me?" This was bad. If he worked for Hudson. . .

"No. I merely made an observation."

I sighed, trying to ignore him. Fi would owe me big time for this.

"Just don't touch anything else, ok?"

He nodded, though I could tell by the way he was standing that he had no intention of listening to me.

"Fine. So you must have found the bodies then."

"Bodies?" This was news to me. Sam hadn't mentioned bodies.

"Oh. He hasn't told you yet."

"Hey, Sam?" I called.

He walked into the loft, his eyes hiding something. Probably fear.

"Bodies, Sam?"

He nodded, dropping a folder on the table. "Two men, last night, within walking distance. One of them was dumped in the canal. The other in a dumpster. Both of them were shot through the head, execution style."

"Any idea who they were?" I asked, alarmed. People were shot all the time in Miami, and I did live in a bad part of town. But if these events were connected to Hudson. . .

Sam shook his head. "No, but here's the creepy part."

Sherlock looked closely at the pictures, gasping in recognition. "Oh. Oh, this is brilliant!"

I glared at him. "Murders aren't generally considered a good thing."

"Maybe not to you. But look." He gestured to the men in question. Both were of medium built, well-dressed, with light brown hair cut close to their heads.

"Oh." I managed. "Maybe I'd better stay away from the windows for a while."