"AWWW HELL NO!" Scott screeched in his grating American manly twang. Michael swooped in like a sexy hot bird of prey to salvage the situation.
"Our intel indicated you were an inmate here. What changed?"
"My employer, for one. And she doesn't particularly like either of you."
"What about me? What about me?!" Locke demanded. Dalton's sigh was crisp with annoyance.
"My employer didn't mention you. Probably because you weren't worth mentioning." Michael forced Locke to shut the hell up before he launched into another vengeance tirade.
"Who's your employer?" Scott asked, attempting to gain the diplomatic high ground, but Dalton was prepared. She dangled the necklace as if she were offering meat to a lion.
"I could leave you in chains, hidden away in this prison. Or we could negotiate."
"NO WAY IN JOHN PORTER WOULD I NEGOTIATE WITH YOU!" The femme fatale spun the diamond necklace around in her hands with lazy disinterest.
"Pity. I thought Finn was worth more to you. Oh well. I'll personally let your son know that his father decided to be absent from his life. Again."
"IT'S DAMIEN JR! And I was only absent for like...sixteen years! Is that really so bad?" Damien spat. He turned to his best friend for confirmation. "I mean, I've done WORSE things than abandon my baby son after a sleazy one night stand at the Senor Taco restaurant." Stonebridge tried to hide his disapproval by speaking rapidly in his razzle dazzle British accent, but Scott could see past the lies. "You think I'm a dirtbag, don't you Mike? Admit it!" Stonebridge huffed with a face that looked like it was carved by angels.
"Senor Taco? REALLY, Damien? Besides, I could care less about Finn. He's not my kid." The Brit ignored Scott's look of pure betrayal and rounded on Dalton. "We're here about Baxter. You hired him, didn't you? Talk, you washed out has been!" Stonebridge regretted his mean macho side and knew it went against everything instilled into a Knight of the Most Excellent Order, but hell, this place was really freaking him out. And it smelled. Like, really bad. The sooner they got out of this shitty place, the better. Dalton crossed her arms with a flip of her long ponytail.
"Fine. I'll tell you all about that fragile Cheeto Baxter IF I get something in return." The obnoxious American threw his hands up in exasperation, raising Stonebridge's left wrist against his will.
"We already promised boss man here some Li Na chick! And I want to see Dddaaammiiieennnn Jjjjrrrr!" Dalton then whispered something to Stonebridge, for his ears alone, and the knight shot her a dark glare before letting his shoulders drop in defeat.
"We accept your offer. You have my word."
"Then let's talk shop. Shall we?" Scott nudged a disheartened Stonebridge as they followed the vixen down the gross hallway.
"Yo Mikey, what was that all about?" Stonebridge smiled a little sadly.
"It's nothing. Don't worry about it, Damien."
For information pertaining to Baxter, Michael always knew there'd be a hefty price to pay. It just never occurred to him how much he'd have to sacrifice this time. But dammit, for Queen, country, his smokin' hot fiancée and yeah, even Damien Jr, he'd agree to Dalton's ridiculous terms.
But he sure as hell wasn't happy about it. And, even if he couldn't reveal the ugly terms of the agreement with his partner, he'd make sure Scott knew EXACTLY how pissed he was.
Thirty minutes later had Michael barreling away from the prison in a decked out Humvee and more ammo than a small army. Locke was riding shotgun (given that he'd yelled 'Shotgun!' first and smacked Scott's Indian burn for good measure) while the American sulked in the backseat. Dalton had graciously provided the keys to their handcuffs while pulling the Brit aside in secret to iron out the finer details of their deal. For the first time since meeting Scott in Kuala Lumpur, he finally understood what the ex-Delta Force operative had gone through when he'd been falsely accused of drug possession. The fallout had destroyed Scott's reputation and personal life, leaving an ugly military paper trail littered with counterfeit accusations in its wake. Stonebridge's resolve wavered and he almost spilled the beans right then and there about his shady arrangement with Dalton.
"Hey, Scott, mate, you should know-"
"I GOTTA PISS LIKE A RACEHORSE, PULL OVER! MMIIIKKKEEEYYYYYY!"
Stonebridge immediately shut up and stared annoyingly at the dirt path ahead. Fine, then. He'd handle everything HIMSELF as usual, because Scott was such a lame ass cabbage patch baby brat.
"Why didn't you go before we left?" Locke asked with a hint of steel in his voice. Scott huffed as if it were obvious.
"Because I didn't have to go then! Pllleeeaaassseee Mikey..." Stonebridge slammed the brakes so hard Scott nearly dove headfirst through the windshield.
"You've got one minute."
"Mike, why're you being such an asshole?"
"Forty five seconds."
"What'd I do to you?"
"Thirty seconds."
"FINE THEN!" Scott stomped off into thick foliage to do his business while Stonebridge drummed his fingers erratically on the steering wheel. After this mission, he'd never see his sweet Kim again. Rachel Dalton would bury him in a hole so deep he'd never see the light of day...
Scott flopped back in the vehicle after failing to secure his spot in the front seat for the second time and sat in blessed silence for about three seconds until he just HAD to open his mouth.
"Michael, you didn't really mean what you said back there? About Damien Jr?"
Stonebridge knew he shouldn't be such a hardass and take his frustrations out on the one man who'd watched his back through armored truck crashes, train hijackings, and shit water (the Brit had to freakin' dive UNDER that shit water to commandeer a boat in Colombia and no way in hell was he ever letting Scott forget it!) but the thought of losing everything he held dear—his rad position as the man hunk of Section 20, his beautiful kickass fiancée, and all those amazing zoom-in camera angles featuring his totally sexy but still-a-regular-guy face—almost destroyed him. Add an oblivious, irritating, attention hog American to the mix and Stonebridge's dark mood reached even greater heights. He gunned the Humvee, sending Scott tumbling around like a rag doll.
"Every word," Stonebridge spat in reply. He intended for the statement to hurt but hot damn if his dreamy accent didn't soften the sting by at least fifty percent. Scott leaned forward between the two seats but Stonebridge shoved his head back without taking his eyes off the bumpy, forlorn road.
"What the actual frick, Mikey? Damien Jr—"
"FOR THE LAST TIME HIS NAME IS FINN!" Stonebridge snapped. Locke, evidently enjoying the sudden display of drama and character development, obtained movie theater popcorn from out of nowhere and started munching in earnest. It was Scott's turn to scowl.
"Well...FINE THEN!"
"FINE." A brief pause.
"I'm not talking to you, Mikey!"
"Good."
"Good!"
Scott shielded his eyes from the conveniently setting sun, which made his gorgeous green eyes really pop. Stonebridge neared their destination in silence, marred only by Locke's continued popcorn feast. Surprisingly, it was Grant who broke the tension over their radio comms.
"Mission well done, soldiers. I assume you found intel on that lying weasel Baxter. Get your asses to the safe house. Martinez and Richmond will rendezvous with you there."
"Copy that," Stonebridge said flatly. When Scott didn't acknowledge their commanding officer, he turned in the driver's seat to cast him a withering glare. "Got anything to add, Damien?" His asshole partner flipped him the bird in response. "Damien's not in his usual chatty Kathy mood, but I'm sure you'll be delighted to speak with an old acquaintance who DIDN'T die in a paper mache volcano. Philip Locke." Grant sighed from the other line.
"Well, seeing as I'm not about to dismiss one of the most talented badasses Britain has to offer, I'll allow him to stay on the team. Locke, I'm ordering you to work in tandem with Kamali and Esther. They'll be parachuting into hostile territory within the hour." Locke threw the popcorn bag over his shoulder and it smacked Scott right in the face.
"Are we LOCKEING the—"
"No more LOCKE puns. We're seriously running out of ways to use those in this story," the colonel interrupted with another huff. "I've sent the safe house coordinates to your phone, Michael. Now move it!"
"On it." Stonebridge tossed his super secret spy phone to Damien Sr, smirking when it hit him on the nose. "Check Google maps. We should be close." To his surprise, the pissed off Father of the Year pitched the phone back at him, catching the knight on the back of the head.
"YOU check Google maps! I'm busy writing a long lost letter to my son who you don't care about and never WILL!"
"I'm DRIVING, you wanker!"
"Well that just f-ing sucks. Get over it!"
"I'll LOCKE in the coordinates!" Locke offered as he reached for the mobile. The younger Brit slapped the boss man's hands away before returning them ten and two on the wheel.
"NO! Let Damien do it. He's a big boy, he can handle it." Scott clenched his perfectly stubbled jaw.
"Well Mikey should've thought about that BEFORE he turned into a spoiled little wussy girl!"
Their bickering continued for hours, neither agent consulting the coordinates, until they eventually found the safe house after Locke slapped them both in the face, tossed Michael into the passenger seat, and performed a flawless handbrake turn into a manicured driveway.
"Good luck, boys. You're gonna need it," Locke said calmly, as if driving like a maniac came second nature. Stonebridge tried not to hyperventilate from the near death experience while Scott nursed a multitude of bruises from being thrown around the back like a Raggedy Ann.
"Boss? You're not coming inside?" Stonebridge asked incredulously. Scott groaned in irritation at Michael's inherent trust in the shady silver haired man who had left them both for dead not too long ago. The scar from Scott's super manly bullet wound proved Locke was dangerous, a loose cannon. And Michael was definitely keeping something bottled up inside; the incredibly sexy American may be shallow, but he wasn't stupid. If he couldn't trust his British comrade, then who could he trust? He had to watch his back. Baxter could have been in contact with someone else on the team. For all he knew, Kim, Sinclair...even Kamali was a spy! Well, okay, obviously not Kamali. That man's voice could heal wounded puppies and create pots of gold at the end of rainbows. Locke's charming accent interrupted his gloomy thoughts.
"Sorry, Michael. But Kamali and Esther are on a totally separate mission that will eventually become relevant to the current plot and right now they need my help. So I'm taking the Humvee and all the guns and ammo." Scott sat up in horror.
"Wait, ALL the guns? Hold up, I need at least ONE weapon and some backup ammo before you—"
"Later, boys!" Locke cajoled happily. He karate kicked the pair out of their respective seats and into freshly cut grass before completing another handbrake turn with absolutely no momentum and disappearing out of sight.
"F me!" Scott cried as their sweet ass ride and mountain of illegal weapons vanished into the night. He stomped up the steps to the front door and pushed it open with swag. Too much swag. He felt Stonebridge grab the back of his Kevlar vest and yank him out of the entryway just as the hidden charge detonated and shredded the door into painful flying splinters. "F me!" he scowled again, over the persistent ringing in his ears. The floodlights suddenly came to life and burned his retinas with its punishing glare. "F me!" Then a shit load of pepper spray doused both crazy hot Section 20 operatives and they stumbled pathetically into the plush grass. "F me!" Then the sprinklers came on. "F—"
"IF YOU SAY THAT STUPID CATCHPHRASE ONE MORE TIME, MATE, I WILL END YOU!" Stonebridge gasped through the pain. He was so macho badass, that even his "I'm in so much pain right now I could die" face was hella hot.
Scott slipped on the wet landscaping, but was spared an embarrassing ass over tits flip of epic proportions when a strong hand caught his arm and kept him steady.
"I owe you one, Mikey." Shit. The mind numbing pain almost made him forget about his man fight with Stonebridge! Scott tried to shake the offending arm away, hoping that his partner would take the hint and leave him alone. He raised his hand to wipe the burning muck of pepper spray from his eyes, but it only made his vision worse. He hollered for his badass fiancée, even though he couldn't see shit. Where were Julia and Kim?
"JULES! Mikey's being a royal pain in the ass again! Pun intended, being a Most Excellent Knight of I Don't Give A Crap. I mean, what the frick, ladies? It's us! Why'd you go into freak mode?" Before his rant could warrant a response, the stoic man at Scott's side chopped him hard across the back of his neck and sent him crashing, unconscious, to the ground.
Stonebridge, meanwhile, tried to maneuver blindly to his partner's side, through the pepper spray man tears, strobe lights (yes, the floodlights came with that particular setting) and 50 mph sprinklers of death, but his heroic efforts were in vain. A swift kick to the head was all it took for Bravo Six Pack One to kneel uselessly in a puddle while his hands were fastened behind his back. Stonebridge tried to dope the stranger with his most posh British accent, but it clearly backfired and he grunted as the cuffs were tightened. Through his blurry vision, he saw someone amble down the front steps of the safe house and survey his handiwork with a sigh.
"Nice work, Kwon. Your ninja skills are proving most satisfactory." The figure walked closer to his struggling target.
"Baxter!" was all man stud Stonebridge could muster before the ninja in question really went to town on that duct tape and wrapped it painfully tight across his mouth and head. Baxter only smirked and hitched a thumb over his shoulder at Scott's still form. "We almost have the whole team back together, except we DON'T. I've made my OWN division, my OWN Section! Section B, as in Baxter. Liam Baxter." Stonebridge was then hauled inside the nondescript house with no word on Scott's fate.