Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers Prime, Burn Notice, or any other quoted sources.


Chapter 7: Welcome to Miami

—The Day after Aria Leaves, Optimus' POV—

By now, he was thoroughly 'freaking out' as the humans say. Aria had not been at her shop waiting for him like she usually did when he went to take her to base. For over an hour, he had waited, but she still hadn't shown up.

While he knew full well that Aria could take care of herself, he feared the worst for his charge. Where was she? Had the Decepticons captured her?

"Optimus to base," he called. "Has anyone recently had any contact with Aria?"


—Base, Jack's POV—

-{Has anyone recently had any contact with Aria?}- Jack heard Optimus ask over the bases' communications link.

For a moment, Jack just blinked before cursing under his breath, drawing everyone's attention. "I thought…I told her…" Jack sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a habit he had picked up from Aria. Finally, he looked up and said loudly so Optimus could hear him, "Optimus just…come back to base. Aria's fine…I'll explain later when you get back."


"Wow." Was all that Miko managed to mutter for them all when Jack explained the circumstances of his surrogate older sisters' little 'road trips'.

"You act like it's no big deal. Are these road trips common with her or something? Because if it was either of my parents, they'd be freaking out about now."

Jack just shrugged. "After the first couple of disappearances, I guess you just get used to it."

"W-wait you mean she's done this before?" Raf asked incredulously.

Jack nodded.

"So where is she then?" Bulkhead asked.

Jack just shrugged again. "Don't know. She just leaves. No note, no warning, then she just pops back up, acting like it's nothing. She's never told me," he explained casually. "Don't worry too much though. Knowing her she'll be back in a few days," Jack told them.

"Well just to be sure, maybe I should−" Raf began, reaching for his phone, but seeing this, Jack merely sighed.

"Don't bother Raf. There's no point. She won't pick up anyway. Trust me I've tried before. It goes to voice mail all the time."

After a moment of contemplated silence, Optimus finally spoke-up, "And what of her parental units? Surely they must have something against this?"

Jack gave the Prime a funny look. "Honestly, now that I think of it, she doesn't really mention them." He looked puzzled for a moment before shaking his head. "Anyways, like I said, don't worry too much Optimus. This isn't the first time she's pulled one of these stunts. She'll eventually pop back up one way or another, acting for all the world as if nothing's happened." Jack paused, seeming to think something over. "Also, don't be too surprised when she doesn't tell you anything or just gives you vague answers, if you ask her."

And that was the end of that, though Jack did notice that Optimus had an undecipherable expression on his face at the end of his explanation. Poor Optimus.


—Two Days Later, Night, Aria's POV—

Finally, made it, I thought as I pulled up to a slightly ransacked looking building in Miami, Florida.

Now you're probably wondering 'What the hell is Aria doing in Miami?' And I will tell you this: it is not for the beach; that factor holds no sway over me. Most people would be thrilled to be in Miami. Sadly, I'm not most people. Spend a few years as doing what I do and a sunny beach just looks like a vulnerable tactical position with no decent cover. Not to mention that I've never found a good way to hide a gun—or any other weapon for that matter—in a bathing suit.

Anyway, by now, thanks to the 42 hour long drive it took to get here, it was officially dark out and there was now long line of people blocking the metal gate to my building, trailing from the club next door.

I seriously did not want to deal with this right now, especially after my long and stressful two day drive; the control over my temper was already starting wearing thin after having to lose a FBI tail that had tried to follow me on the way here. Currently, my fist was continually clenching and unclenching with the fierce need to hit something. Under my skin, blood boiled in my veins, but I withheld. It would not do to hit some random person just because I felt cranky.

Parking my vehicle and shutting it off, I made my way over, shoving past people in the line to get into the gate, without so much as an 'excuse me'. Luckily, I got through with little trouble. On the other side of the barrier though, I was met with another pretty gruesome sight: a couple practically snogging each other's brains out on the stairs that led up to my place.

Loudly as possible, I cleared my throat, and reluctantly, the two, obviously high, people pulled apart.

"Oh, sorry man, we got carried away waiting on Sugar," the guy said.

'Carried away'? Yeah that's an understatement. Few seconds later and even I would be hesitant to interrupt.

Instead of voicing those thoughts though, I simply raised a brow. "Sugar?" I had heard of my new neighbor but Sugar? Seriously?

"Yeah, I don't know his real name but uh- he usually hooks us up. We wanted to score some weed. Hey, are you the new girl?" he inquired, getting his facts wrong in his less than lucid state of mind.

The guy looked like he wanted to say more but I cut him off. "Leave." They just looked at me stupidly. "Now." At the hard look on my face, they immediately skedaddled, shooting me wary looks over their shoulders.

Tiredly rubbing the bridge of my nose, I started climbing the stairs, just wanting the comfort of my dark home for now. I was not in the mood to deal with my drug-dealer neighbor or anyone right now. All I wanted to do was face-plant into my bed.


—Next Day—

You can't choose your sources for specialized goods. They could be the Russian mafia, illegal arms dealers, or the guy who lives under his grandmother and mothers shouty regime and plays Dance Dance Revolution with his cousin.

Pulling up to the quaint little house in my black Charger, I eyed the building before getting out. Thankfully, my contact seemed to be home. But that may be because I didn't call ahead to give him a heads-up and give him time to book it out of there.

Steeling myself, I marched up to the front door and knocked.

Less than a minute later, a balding African American guy answered the door.

Glenn Whitmann: expert hacker and computer hardware technician and also a colossal dork. He and his girlfriend, Maggie Madsen, were my go-to-people for a majority of my computer techie problems and other related items, such as designing specific new toys for me.

"Howdy Glenn. Mind if I come in?" I asked, greeting him cheerily before pushing past him as I waltzed in anyway.

"I— Eb— Deb— What—Ari! No this is my private area. My place of Zen and peace!" The man spluttered.

I turned to him giving the man a hard look. "Look, Glenn, I really need yours and Maggie's help with something. Is she here too?"

Before he could respond however, a cranky woman's voice called from somewhere in the house, asking—though more like demanding—Glenn who was at the door. It was probably his mother or grandma.

"Shut up Grandma!" he yelled back before turning back to me. "What are you doing here?"

"Well that's a fine hello," I commented. "Look Glenn I need your expertise on something."

Before more could be said, however, more shouting between the two family members ensued. It was a typical occurrence when you were at Glenn's house, though it did get a bit tedious at times. "Grandmamma, get your prune-juice!" he yelled back as we both ran for the cover of his bedroom.

Honestly, Glenn's 'room' resembled more of a broom closet, but I wasn't complaining too much because Maggie was there too.

Maggie Madsen: Glenn's girlfriend and fellow hacker. She was a beautiful, blonde Australian girl who worked for the CIA as a data analyst mostly. Of the couple, she was the braver one by far.

"Aria!" she greeted happily. "It's so good to see you. What are you doing here?"

Of course, once again, I was interrupted. This time by Glenn and his cousin, Marty, who were both crazily grooving to some kind of game. Honestly, they acted like ADHD toddlers on Redbull sometimes.

"I have an important favor that I need from you and Glenn," I managed to convey to her over the noise.

She nodded in understanding before going over and whispering something in her hubby's ear. Immediately, he froze, before pausing the game and turning to his cousin. "Hey, hey, I just paused it. Look I need a moment alone okay? Please."

His cousin gave him one of those kicked puppy looks, but eventually, Marty took the polite command to get out of Glenn's room with stride.

Finally, he was gone and the two hackers gave their full attention to me.

"So how big is this 'favor' you want from us?" Maggie asked.

Pulling out a small mechanical object about the size of a 55mm bullet, I placed it on Glenn's desk gingerly. "I need you two to come up with a special techie virus that will meet these specifications and put it all into that device," I told them both cautiously, handing Glenn the slip of paper with the outlines for the virus I had in mind.

I watched as both read over the small list, Maggie reading over Glenn's shoulder. Slowly, both their faces morphed, showing the varying degrees of their slight misgivings as to what my favor entailed.

Unsurprisingly, Glenn was the first one to voice his opinions when he finished. "What the—Aria, are you insane? Do you know what kind of work this will take? An adaptable virus? That isn't even possible! And—"

"Wait! Glenn what if we…" she then began to speak in a complex computer techie lingo that I don't think even Raf would understand, explaining to her cowardly boyfriend how they could work do this and that and get certain parts to work together and such. At least, that's what I think she was saying; she lost me after the word 'we'.

Slowly, Glenn started to look thoughtful, nodding his head and responding in kind to what Maggie was saying in their super secret computer techie language. Eventually, their argument/debate seemed to come to a stop with Maggie grinning victoriously as Glenn seemed to slump slightly in defeat.

"Alright….But what if someone traces this back to me?" he asked.

Thankfully, I had anticipated this question. "Don't worry. This will only be a one-time deal kind of thing I'm thinking about. More of a 'just in case of emergencies' kind of contingency, and even then, this will be a big 'If' if I can even manage to plug it into the system I'm targeting. Besides, the people who I plan on using it against will have more pressing concerns if this works, and even then, they'll be chasing after me, not you two."

By now, I could tell that the man's resolve was crumbling; it just needed one more push in the right direction and I would be golden. "Please Glenn? I really, really need it," I pleaded with the hacker, my pride now in ruins. "I am willing to pay a hefty amount for this, Glenn," I tempted, leisurely piling the stacks of cash in front of him for temptation.

"What about my—"

"Your video games can wait. Please Glenn. It's important. Lives could be at stake when I need it the most."

The man before me fell silent, considering the request.

"Fine. I'll do it," he gave in.

"Thank you—"

"On one condition."

Uh-oh. "I'm listening."

The two hackers shared a look, practically conveying their thoughts to each other. Whatever, it was seemed to be causing looks of concern and worry.

Finally, the Australian woman spoke. "See, it's an old friend of ours, Laura. These people came over to her house with some kind of scam. They got all of her bank-account numbers. They took everything that she has. And they beat her up, Aria. She's terrified."

Glenn took over from there, placing a comforting arm around his girlfriend. "We tried everything we could to track them down but…"

"Let me guess," I said. "Everything was fake?"

They nodded.

"Well, what am I supposed to do?"

"Well, you'll think of something," Maggie said quickly. "She lives right across the street. You could go there now."

Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I sighed but got up anyway. "I talk to your friend, and then we talk about that virus?"

All I got in reply were some victorious smiles.


—Laura's House—

"Thank you so much for coming. When Glenn and Maggie said they knew someone who could help me, I was so relieved," the red-headed, older woman rambled as she led me into her home. Thankfully, it did not smell like a typical old persons home.

"Well, what happened exactly?" I questioned, shutting the door and sitting down across from her.

"I got a letter about a month ago, uh, said I'd won a prize; one of those magazine things," she told me. "I called, and they congratulated me, said they had to send some people over to fill out some tax forms." By now, the slight bruising on the left side of her face seemed to look even more gruesome as her expression fell, her eyes starting to glisten with unshed tears.

"And they came over and…" I prompted gently.

"There were two men and a woman. They were in such a hurry to get my information, credit cards, bank accounts," she continued, breathing deeply and dabbing at her eyes with an already battered-looking tissue. "I got nervous, and I asked them to leave. I tried to call the police, and…they hit me…broke my arm," she sniffled gesturing to her left appendage which was wrapped in a white cast. "I checked my bank account. It's all gone. It's all I had."

As Laura cried woefully, dabbing at her eyes, I knew immediately that I was already going to do all I could to help this woman.

Ill-equipped as to how to best comfort the crying woman, I softly asked her, "Uh, do you have anything that– Uh– Do you have a description of them?"

If I could get a description of them, then maybe I could have a chance at finding these people.

"Oh, I'm not very good at that sort of thing," she admitted croakily, causing me to resist the urge to groan. "The main one, he was good-looking, blonde. The other two were just regular, with brown hair."

"'Regular looking with brown hair'?" I mused quietly. It wasn't much to go on, but it was something to start with.

Then a lightbulb seemed to go on above Laura's head. "I have the prize letter," she added helpfully, getting up with a slight struggle, despite my offers to help. "My son wants to put me in a home now. Thinks I can't be trusted," she told me mournfully as she came back, handing me the slip of paper over.

Noiselessly, I scanned the document, holding it up to the light and such to check for watermarks and the like. Despite the end results, like what happened to Laura, it looked pretty legit. Finally though, I folded it back up and turned back to the older woman. "Uh, I'll see what I can do. I'm gonna need to borrow this, okay?"

Still crying, she managed to nod before revolving into a fresh bout of tears.

"I should go," I said awkwardly, eyeing the door. "I'm gonna go."


—Later, Bar—

"So you're helping old ladies now? Good for you, Aria. Hey, I saw a kitten up a tree on my way over here," Sam teased with a cocky smirk.

Samuel Axe: or Sam as he liked to be called. A former Navy SEAL in his mid-forties, who has had occupations ranging from Navy SEAL to Military Intelligence operative. He was a good friend of mine (possibly even one of my closest). Often times, he has served as both a father-figure to me and a moral compass. However, with his espionage days behind him, he now has become a laid-back slacker that mooches off every rich divorcée in the greater Miami area, bouncing between sugar mommies, and drinking heavily at times. However, even though he appears to be nothing more than a wash out, his long range of careers and operations has ensured a long list of "connections". Not to mention that he still has his expertise intact, and he's also very loyal to those he considers friends.

"They beat her up, took her life savings," I told him. "You in or not?"

"Well, when you put it that way…What can I say? What's the plan?" he asked.

I pulled out the phony certificate Laura had given me and showed it to him. "The address and phone number are fake; but the printing, the foil embossing. There can't be more than one place in Miami that does that kind of work."

"Sounds good," he thankfully agreed. Hopefully, he would still be on board when I told him this next bit.

"Uh, listen, the money on this one will be a little thin."

"Well, it's a public service," Sam concurred before getting an idea. "Hey, how about a trade? I had a little…disagreement with the lady friend I was staying with, and I could use a place to crash."

"Three days."

The chestnut-haired man made a face. "I was thinking more like a week. Aria, look, I can sweeten the pot on this," Sam begged. "If I'm staying with you, the feds will be off of your back. I'll just tell them that I'm babysitting you."

The thought of my little FBI tail made me internally cringe. Sam was supposed to be informing them of what I do because they had Sam's pension or whatever it was, tied up so to speak. Of course I already knew about it and was okay with it, just so long as he told them just enough but not everything.

"Five days, you bring a sleeping bag, and you're out by the weekend?" I enquired.

"Done."


—Aria's Place—

Life seems to enjoy royally screwing with me. After we went over and got Sam's stuff, I met my new neighbor; Sam was out back, parking the Charger and getting his stuff since he insisted on carrying it up himself.

"What's up bro? You new around here?" the bleached blonde guy asked.

"No, not really," I replied offhandedly, determinedly not looking at him so as not to encourage conversation.

Sadly, he did not take the hint. "Well, my name is Sugar. And I heard you messed with some of my friends last night."

"I asked a few of your customers to get out of here, yeah."

Rudely, he got up in my face, his tanned skin looking red in contrast to his platinum-colored hair. "What's your problem?"

"My problem right now is a pretty-boy drug dealer with a bad dye job that's standing in my way," I told him straight up, not caring if I hurt his feelings.

He grabbed my arm as I attempted to go around him. It was the one with the bandage; I hissed slightly, disliking being touched on that arm.

"Whoa, did I hurt you, bro?" he mocked, mistaking the sound for one of pain.

Doesn't matter how much training you have. An old injury and the reminders that come with it will always be just that; an old injury and bad memories.

Sugar pulled me up to face him. "Don't start fights you can't finish, bro!"

In answer, I grabbed his hand from my shoulder and twisted it back, forcing him to go down in pain lest he break his arm.

"I'll break it," I growled down at him. "I don't want to, but I will if I have to bro."

The man did not hold up long against the threat of pain. "All right, all right! All right, let go! Let go! Let go!" Without so much as a second thought, I released my hold on him and continued on my way, letting him scamper away like the pathetic little hood-rat he was.

Of course, life continued to mess with me.

When I made it up the stairs and got to the entrance my house (if you could call it that), the previously locked door swung open without any force, indicating that someone had broken in. Immediately, my senses went on alert as I creeped inside, scanning the area, only to find that my 'burglar' was still there, sitting on my bed and making herself right at home.

"Hello, Aria," the woman greeted.

"Fi, you're here," I stated in an 'I really wish you weren't though' tone.

Fiona Glenanne: a young Irishwoman of many talents. Awhile back, she was affiliated with the IRA for 14 years but ran afoul because she did not like being told what to do. She has since gone out on her own, working freelance, picking up odd jobs and using her skills in explosives, picking locks, tracking, weapons, marksmanship, and hand-to-hand combat to make a living. I even heard that a while ago she tried working it as an unlicensed bounty hunter and arms dealer. Mostly though, she was a major-league trigger-happy explosive expert; at least, in my eyes, she was. Fiona has a tendency to shoot—or blow up—first and ask questions later. Her preferred method is going in with guns ablazing or IEDs exploding; she also has a certain vixen complex, frequently using her sex appeal to acquire information.

"I came by for a visit. The door was locked, so I broke in," Fiona stated, looking not even slightly shameful saying it.

"What are you doing here?" I hedged cautiously.

"I needed to get out of New York for a while. Old associates sniffing around. And I wanted to try someplace sunny. Plus, I heard you lived somewhere in town."

Whoever told her this was seriously going to die, I swear.

Not letting my emotions show, I continued to converse with her, hoping to devise a quick strategy to get her out fast. "New accent, new…style," was my placating comment.

"Well, I'm in Miami now. I can't very well be talking like a freaking leprechaun, now can I?" she said, letting some of her native accent slip through for a moment as she said that last bit before reverting back. "This is the new me, Aria…for now."

The clock was ticking, and I needed to get her out of here, fast. "So you're staying in town then. That's great. Listen, Fi. Now's not really a good time for you to be—"

"Oh, Jesus, Ari. You didn't tell me she was gonna be here," Sam said as he walked in, glaring at Fiona.

Lord help me.

Fiona looked absolutely livid at the sight of the man, running at him and fighting me as I caught her. "You cost me a lot of money, you son of a bitch! I've been waiting to talk to you for a long time!" She howled at him.

"I cost you? Okay, for starters, what you're talking about never officially happened. Alright? But unofficially, even if it had, you deserved a hell of a lot worse than what you got, lady."

"Sam!" I yelled, trying to get the two people to calm down.

My protest, however, went unnoticed, as Fiona picked up an empty beer bottle that had been lying around, and hurled it in Sam's direction.

This is the reason I don't have a lot of parties, if any at all. Everyone I know has got a history with everyone else.

"That was a legitimate purchase! The US government had no business—" Fiona began to snarl.

"Yeah? Legitimate? A Libyan arms dealer? How do you figure that?" Sam retorted back sarcastically, not helping the matter. This was not going as planned.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" I called over all the ruckus, practically straining my voice to be heard. Thankfully, they both knew to shut up pretty quickly when I used the tone; I turned back to the Irishwoman. "Fi, I'm thrilled that you've come by, but Sam and I need to talk about a job, so you need—"

"A job?" Fiona immediately perked up, becoming instantly docile. "Hmm. That sound like fun." She shot Sam a 'just try and stop me if you can' look over my shoulder. "I'm in."

Before heading upstairs, Sam just sent me a look that said he would personally hold me responsible for any trouble Fiona caused.

Heaven help me now.


—Later, Embossing place—

Often, the best way to get intel is to provoke action, set people in motion. Pros know better, but they usually have to work with a few amateurs, and they panic. So you beat the bushes a little and see what flies out.

So when we got to the printing shop, Sam and I sent Fiona in to try and get some info about the certificate while simultaneously waving around the paper to get the con artists' lackeys' attention.

Knowing her, she would do both that and take the chance to flirt too. It was just typical Fiona.

Meanwhile, Sam and I were stuck in the Charger.

"So anything new happening with you lately, Ari-lee?" Sam asked, using my much despised nickname.

I shrugged. "Ish. Why do you ask?" I questioned turning to him, flaxen brow raised.

"I don't know…You just seem…different, is all," he told me, avoiding my impenetrable gaze.

I was about to respond when a jet-black haired man ran out of the back of the shop.

"There's our guy," I said, starting up the Charger and tailing the amateur's car. Eventually, he came to a stop right before a nice boat docked in the marina.

Once your amateur leads you to the pros, the work begins.

I looked to see three people on the boat, matching Laura's description of them perfectly; Sam snapped a picture of each of our con artists to show to his police buddies later and possibly get some names and info. Looking at them I made a mental note of some things. The 'good-looking one', as Laura had referred to him, was obviously the leader, and the other two were just apprentices.

For future reference, con artists and spies are both professional liars. Cons do it for the money, and spies do it for the flag, but it's mostly the same gig. They run operations, they follow procedures, they recruit support staff and issue orders.


—Later, Night—

Later, Sam and I found ourselves leafing through some info about our con artists. The blondes' name was Quentin King and the apprentices' names were Greg and Bonnie. Cute.

"Hey, so this guy, Quentin, your con artist, hangs out at a club down in South Beach called Onyx. It's nice. Want me to go down there and do some surveillance?" Sam asked hopefully, looking through Quentin's file as I looked through the other twos'.

"No, I think we're fine," I said without looking up. I did not need Sam drunk at the moment.

Approaching from behind my desk chair, he waved a folder in front of me. "I got a cover ID for you, Ari-lee. How do you like the name Petra Jordan?"

I shot him a brief glance and almost blanched. "Would you put some pants on?"

Sam was wearing nothing but his boxers.

"What? I work better when I can breathe down there," he informed me, making obscene gestures as he made motions of fanning himself down there to stress his point. "I mean, do you want to hear about this girl or no?"

Figuring that it was pointless to argue with him, I heaved a sigh. "Yeah, tell me about Petra Jordan."

The brunette man smiled triumphantly before continuing on. "She was cell mates with an ex-partner of Quentin's. She, uh, jumped parole about a month ago, but they caught her. She's in a Phoenix holding cell, but they haven't put her back through the system yet. She kind of looks like you too. You know, more or less," he commented, sitting down next to me and showing me the mugshot.

Skimming over the info, a smirk stretched my lips. "Not bad for a man in his underwear."

"Hey, you think that's good; you should see me without them."

Suddenly there was a loud knocking on the door, causing us both to jump slightly. Knowing that Sam was ill-equipped to go to the door at the time, I was the one who got up and opened it.

And guess who barged her way in?

"Look what I got for someone?" Fiona sing-songed, holding the object up for me to see.

Upon realizing what it was and what she intended to do, I immediately paled, screaming out, "Rape! Rape! Fragnabbit! Somebody call the cops!", and attempted to run for the nearest cover only to be cornered by Fiona; Sam did nothing but laugh a little as Fiona proceeded to torture me.


—Later, Onyx Club—

When you go after a criminal mastermind, you send another mastermind. The same goes for con artists. To catch one, you've got to beat him at his own game, be a better liar than he is.

Looking around the noisy club for the con artist, I did my best to ignore the dress that Fiona had managed to wrangle me into. Give me aliens, giant robots and/or the Decepticon Warlord himself anyday, and I would be just peachy, but try to put me in a dress and I will fight tooth and nail to not become someone's Barbie doll. She had managed to get me into a form-hugging, short black dress that had only one long-sleeve arm with gold, silver and copper metal diamond designs on the bicep, right over my bandaged arm; she had also gotten me to wear more make-up than just my usual concealer that I used to hide the scars on my face.

Thankfully, the Fates smiled upon me and I found Quentin. Casually, I sauntered over to the couch he was sitting on with a club girl and sat on the other end, waiting for him to notice.

Eventually, he did. "Excuse me, can I help you?" he asked, leaning back to look behind the club-girls head at me as I poured some available champagne for myself before turning to face him.

"Quentin King, right?" I asked with a smile, adopting a New Jersey accent with little hassle.

"Yeah," he admitted, now eyeing me warily.

Now getting a clear look at him, I saw Quentin was exactly as Laura described him. He was young and had short blonde hair with perfect, streamlined looks, like the features you see on certain aristocrats.

"We have a mutual friend up in New York, Paco. Few weeks ago, I'm at a dog track in Newark, freezing my tits off, when I remember that Paco said if I ever got down to Miami, I should look you up. So I'm thinking, "Hell, anywhere's nicer than Newark." So I got my ass down to Miami. Petra Jordan, hey," I introduced, smiling casually, and reaching over and shaking the man's hand.

"Look, Petra, you got the wrong guy," he told me.

"No, no, I don't think so," I insisted stubbornly, leaning into the girl's space a little too much on purpose. "See, I was roommates with your buddy Paco for a year. He told me about that job you pulled off, up in Tampa. Real nice. I have a business opportunity I want to discuss with you."

Finally, with a tiny prompting from Quentin, the girl got up eagerly and left, probably uncomfortable being ignored and having her personal space being invaded by a stranger.

No matter how good your cover identity is, you've got to sell it, and that's not always easy.

"Like I said, you got the wrong guy. I don't know you. I don't know this Paco—"

Interrupting him, I stubbornly pushed at the guys resolve. "Hey, I went to a lot of trouble to find you. I got a warrant on my ass. Will you hear me out?"

"I'm in water-filter sales. Now, you want a water filter, I can help you out."

I forced a laugh before leaning in and saying, "I don't want to argue with you, but what's a water-filter salesman doing with a 45 inside a shoulder holster?"

Immediately, his expression hardened. "That's my business," he told me before a smirk graced his fine features as he leaned back in and said, "But you know what is your business? There's a couple cops that are sitting over there by the bar, talking to the manager. Been there awhile, probably liquor license. How about I bring them over here and we talk about the terms of your parole?"

Sometimes you have to decide just how committed you are to pretending you are who you say you are.

I grabbed him as he went to get up, pulling out a gun that I had concealed in my useless folded up shawl, and pressing it into his side. "Anyone ever tell you you're bad at making friends?" I smiled back sickly sweet, taking his gun. "Paco said you had some issues, but I like to give people a chance. It's just how I am. This is what happens: you're gonna get us out of here, because I like Miami, and I'm not going back to jail. So if those cops even look at me, we'll see how many slugs I can put through your liver before they take me down. I got 20 bucks on 4. You want to take the over or the under?"

As he contemplated my words, I pretended to grove a little to the beat of the song that was playing.

Finally, he said, "All right, let's go out back."

"Smile, stand up, put your arm around me and act like the friends I wanted us to be." Like the excellent actor the con artist was, Quentin slung his arm around me and laughed heartily, the bogus sound easily believable to anyone looking in our direction. We were just some old friends laughing over some old, long-forgotten joke as we made our way out.

Finally though, we made it out and Quentin's mask melted away. "All right, here we are. You want to take that thing out of my ribs now?"

"Oh, and then you send the cops right after me? Uh-huh."

Swiftly letting go of him and striding forward, I took aim with my gun.

I don't like running from cops, but it has its advantages: it builds your credibility with a criminal when you flee a crime scene.

Quickly, I fired, shooting out the tires of the cop cruisers.

"I'll be in touch," I told him firmly over my shoulder, looking him dead in the eyes, before disappearing into the night. Had I looked back, I would have seen a smirk playing on Quentin's lips.


—Aria's Place—

Thankfully, I made it back home in one piece. Fiona, who had been watching me from the background, walked up beside me as we made it past the line of people and the gate.

"Well that was fun," she finally spoke.

I raised an eyebrow. "'Fun'? I'm surprised that you haven't yet commented on the lack of explosions."

She shrugged. "That was a bit of downer, but I finally got to see you in a dress for once and live a little. I must say it's a refreshing change of pace," she smiled, me looking me up and down, at her handiwork.

Rolling my grey orbs, I snorted. "Pfft. 'Refreshing' she says…"

Of course, the lightness of the mood was not meant to be.

"Don't move," the gunman commanded, firearm aimed at Fiona's head as he stepped from the shadows. That was a huge mistake on his part. "Sugar wants you out," the thug-for-hire said, looking me directly in the eyes.

I figured as much.

"They have nothing to do with this," I said as calmly as possible.

"Shut up."

Well there went his one chance to make it out of this unscathed.

"He's right. Aria, shut up," Fi said, swaying her body tantalizingly in front of the man with a gun as she clapped a hand over my mouth. She turned to face the hired gun with a familiar fire burning in her eyes. "I can handle myself." Like the fly deceived by the spiders lies, he fell for the trap, ensnaring himself willingly in her web. Then, Fiona struck; the Irish woman grabbed his gun-arm and aimed it away, slamming her head into his jaw, before finally KO-ing the guy with his own gun. "You really ought to do something about your neighbors," Fi told me simply as if nothing had happened, handing me the handgun.

"I know, I know."

"Oh and Aria," she called as she went to leave. "You really should try to open up to people a little more. It'll do you wonders."


—Next Day, Near the Beach, Morning—

Eavesdropping and fieldwork go hand in hand. You want to know what your target is saying and what he's typing into his computer, but technology can't work miracles. Bugs don't plant themselves. Fact is, even the fanciest equipment usually needs help from a good, old-fashioned crowbar.

"Get onto the boat, plant the bugs, get out quick," I carefully instructed Sam and Fiona, handing Sam the duffel bag of tools that they would need.

"Yep, gotcha. Okay, what's that for?" Sam asked, eyeing the crowbar Fiona had pulled out of the bag.

"I could think of something," Fiona grinned, brandishing it as the wordless threat of bodily harm hung in the air. Apparently, she was still miffed about whatever had happened between them ages ago.

Knowing that if something wasn't done quickly, Fiona's words would lead to another argument, I quickly stepped in. "It's for the lock, if you have trouble, Sam."

Thankfully, the words seemed to placate him from Fiona's jab. "Ari, give me some credit. I mean, I can handle a lock."

"Quentin had a Colt," I informed him firmly. "Forty-five with extended controls and a beveled mag well. He's serious. Be careful, Sam."

Then, I turned back to the woman. "Yeah, Fi, I want you to fix Quentin's car so we can disable it if anything happens. You think you can handle that?"

"I'm not gonna answer that," she imparted snootily.

"Well then, I'm off to make friends," I said, stepping out of the car and putting on my sunglasses.