Chapter 4: Zim Versus Another Finley

"Zimothy Finley!" Zim screamed. "I'm Zimothy Finley! Don't shoot me!"

Sergei paused. "That's the stupidest name I've ever heard before. What is it?"

"Uh, Russian?" Zim asked.

"This is going to be the shortest assignment of my career," John Casey said in his ear.

"You can call me C . . . uh . . ." Fuck! He hated being called Zim! Now he had no choice. At least Fitz and Brandon weren't around to hear this. "Call me Zim. It's short. For, uh, you know. Zimothy."

"Hey hey!" This from a stranger as he approached. This guy had dark hair up top, but the sides were going gray, kind of like classic Nick Fury. He also wore a pair of sunglasses even though it was dark and a Hawaiian shirt. He held a mojito in his hand. "Did I hear that your last name is Finley? So's mine! Maybe we're cousins!" He forced his hand toward Zim. "Name's Chuck Finley! Put 'er there, pal!"

Zim Flashed, and he suddenly realized that this man was not named Chuck Finley. This guy had military coming out of his ass, from being a Navy SEAL to operating in military intelligence. His real name was Sam Axe, and he preferred the Beretta 92FS just to have it around, although he was also a sniper who could shoot with either hand. And holy fuck, he was scary as hell.

"Zim, you flashed," Casey said. "This guy looks familiar. What did you see?"

"Sam Axe," Zim said. Completely forgetting where he was.

Sam looked sidelong at him. "What did you say, now?"

"Zim, shut your fucking mouth," Casey said.

"Weren't you burned?" Sergei asked.

"Ah hell," Sam said. For a man so big, he moved quickly. He turned and put a roundhouse kick into Sergei's guts, causing the Russian to throw his weapon as he fell back. "No, Sergei," Sam said. "That was my buddy, Michael Westen." He sipped from his mojito, which he had not spilled in the slightest.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Neville cried. "Guards! Guards!"

"Whoops!" Sam said. "Let's get you out of here, Zim. I have a few questions for you, and Michael's going to have a lot more."

"Don't lose him," Casey said. "But don't go with him, either. We need you to stay on Neville and Sergei. Walker almost has her side taken care of. Don't screw us on this, Zim."

"That's easy for you to say!" Zim yelled.

Sergei had his gun again, and he whirled it around on Zim. Just before he could take the shot, a red hole grew out of his forehead, and he fell back.

"Hey hey! Thanks, Mikey boy!" Sam said into his watch.

"Dammit, Zim," Casey said. "We needed him alive! At least for now."

"This stinks of an interagency FUBAR," Sam Axe said. "Who you working for, Zim?"

"Don't tell him anything, you idiot," Casey said.

"I don't know," Zim said. "I'm just a guy."

Sam examined him for a moment. Then: "If anyone else had said that, I'd call them a liar. Somehow you seem so stupid you might actually be telling the truth."

"I am!" Zim yelled.

Sam grabbed Zim's wrist and activated the watch. "Hey, whoever's listening. I got your asset. You want him back? I'm gonna need some questions answered."

Casey growled.

Sam reached into Zim's ear and yanked out the earpiece, shoving it into his own. "Talk to me, buddy. What's going on here?"

"This is Colonel John Casey, NSA. I just looked up your . . . heavily redacted file, Sam Axe. Retired, huh?"

Sam shrugged. "More or less."

"Looks like the FBI has you wrapped up in red tape, bow and all. Just to get you to rat on Agent Westen, who it seems is actually a close friend of yours. Let's just say I'm interested."

"Let's talk," Sam said. "I'll deliver your boy, but I'm gonna want to know why you're messing with a top secret mission, Mr. NSA."

They discussed the matter for a moment, and Zim remembered that Neville was getting away. He looked over to see that, no, Neville had gotten away. He hoped that wouldn't fuck with Walker's side of things. He really wanted to bang her.

Casey and Axe settled on a public meeting place. A bar on the beach just a mile away. Sam set them up with mojitos, and Zim found he actually kind of liked them. Casey didn't touch his as he glared at Sam.

"I can only assume it's the Widowmaker," Sam Axe said. "That's the only interesting thing about Sergei what's-his-name."

"You mentioned Michael Westen," Casey said. "Where is he?"

"Come on, man. He's got a burn notice. He's nowhere near this meeting. Just like your other operative. What is she, CIA?"

Casey didn't say anything further.

Zim saw Walker at the bar, keeping a surreptitious eye on them. He grinned, waving at her. "There she is!"

Casey growled, and a vein on his forehead stood out.

"What?" Zim asked.

Walker, having been made, approached the table, and Sam motioned for another mojito. "Despite Zim's utter stupidity," she said. "I still managed to succeed."

Casey shot her a look, and she instantly understood it.

Too late. "So you got the Widowmaker?" Sam asked.

"It's in a safe place," Walker said. "Now who are you?"

"Sam Axe."

"I've heard of you," Walker said. "Don't you work with that burned agent? Michael Westen, I think?"

"My reputation precedes me," Sam said. He plugged his mouth with a mojito.

"I can only assume he's out there somewhere, watching us," Walker said.

Sam shrugged. "Maybe? Probably? Anyway, I brought your asset back to you, safe and sound. I'd like to know why you guys ruined this top secret mission. I mean, I can only assume that the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing, something like that."

Casey nodded. "Something like that."

"Well, everyone wants the Widowmaker. Although to be fair, I really am retired. I just do odd jobs for my buddies. In this case, two FBI agents. They're paying us well for information on the Widowmaker. They think it's a weapon, and it probably is. What's the NSA's interest? And hell, let's throw the CIA in there, as well."

"Are you saying we could work out a deal?" Casey asked.

"I'm open to suggestions. Let's start with what this thing is in the first place."

Walker shrugged. "It's an object of some kind. That's all I was able to tell from when I got it out of Sergei's vault."

"Maybe I should get eyes on it?" Sam asked.

"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves," Casey said.

Zim tuned out. All he could think about were Walker's boobs and how much he wanted to touch them. He looked at her lips and thought about—

"Up and at 'em, Zim." Casey yanked him out of the chair hard enough for Zim to spill the last of his mojito.

As they made their way to the hotel where Walker had stashed the Widowmaker away, Zim got the distinct feeling that someone was watching them. He figured it was probably Sam's sniper friend.

And then he noticed two people following closely. One man, one woman. They talked through the corners of their mouths to each other. He thought he heard her say, "That's definitely them."

Just as Zim, Casey, Walker and Sam made it to the hotel's entrance, the two strangers flanked them and drew down. "United States Secret Service! Freeze! Drop your weapons!"

The man held a straightforward gun. The woman held . . . some kind of ray gun? It looked like something from a Flash Gordon movie.

He Flashed. He saw a large building in London. He knew it was called Warehouse 12. An image of Nikola Tesla surfaced, imposed over the weird ray gun looking thing. Tesla worked at inventing the device with a woman who for some reason came up in his head as H.G. Wells. Weird. Any relation to that guy with the robot arm on Cutthroat Island?

The Flash stopped, and he held his head, eyes closed, trying to work through the ache it had caused.

"FUCK," he said.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .