STANDING STILL
Author: Pipsqueak
Rating: PG-13 for the most part, though there will be one part that will be posted in both PG and NC-17 versions
Spoilers: Oh, yeah, they're in there. And if you can find and list 'em all, I'll send you a virtual basket of chocolate.
Category: Romance, Angst, Drama, Humor (shaken vigorously and served with a twist eg)
Disclaimers: The Invisible Man and its characters belong to Stu Segall Productions and the Sci-Fi channel. Anybody else belongs to me. 'Nuff said.
A/N: I am deeply indebted to someone for the concept of Darien's "internal Bobby Hobbes." I just wish I could remember from where and from whom I stole it. ;-p
The Vagabond Inn really does exist in Sacramento, though I've never been. Heck for all I know it could be a palace, but judging from the little write-up in the travel guide, I think I've portrayed it pretty accurately. The same is true for the Shilo Inn in Delano. I do know from personal experience that the description of Rent-A-Wreck cars is quite accurate. g
I also want to thank my fabulous betas, Suz and Adel, for giving me great insights, wonderful character corrections and just general moral support when I wanted to take this whole dang thing and throw it out the window. :-)
Part 1 -- The Friendly Skies
A modern day poet named Jewel once asked the musical question: "Am I standing still/with the scenery flying by/Am I standing still/Was that you/Out of the corner of my eye/Passing me by?" Well, ever since I got a biosynthetic gland implanted in my head, I've felt like I was constantly running. Running from a myriad of bad guys that want me dead, running from an agency that's trying to enslave me, running from the madness that threatens to engulf me. But now it seems that despite my running, when I think about what really matters most in my life, all I've really been doing is standing still.
Darien Fawkes squirmed in his seat, desperately trying to find the most comfortable position in which to sit with his knees practically pushed up into his chest. It had been a long drive to the airport, but at least the car had been comfortable. Yeah, the Rent-A-Wreck had pretty much been just that -- a wreck -- but the old model had had enough room for him to stretch his long limbs during the trek from Cold Springs to Sacramento.
Now he was stuck trying to perform physical origami, unsuccessfully fitting himself into an economy window seat as he waited for his flight to fill up. He sighed, twisted his knees to the right and his shoulders to the left, felt his back complain. 'Damn, cheap Agency,' he thought, not for the first time, 'I never should have agreed to let Eberts make my reservations.' His seat was at the rear of the plane, too, which meant he was first on and last off. That was OK, though, he could fill his time silently enumerating the various ways he was going to make the Agency's bean counter extraordinaire pay for this little slice of hell:
#1: Break all the erasers off Eberts' pencils and replace them in the cup on his desk.
#2: Scotch tape the paper in his adding machine so it wouldn't feed out.
#3: Move all his "M" files to the "N" drawer and vice versa.
#4: Write "Ebes Sucks" on the second page of all the Agency's carbon forms.
He was just warming up to number five on his hit list, when he heard a hubbub. He glanced up, over the heads of the other passengers, and saw what looked like an overstuffed duffel bag walking itself down the aisle. From somewhere behind the bag, he could hear a muffled, female voice apologizing profusely every time the luggage strayed from the middle and bumped into someone sitting in an aisle seat. He watched the duffel bag get closer and closer, contemplated the empty aisle seat next to him and groaned. Oh, it just *figured*.
Sure enough, the duffel came to a halt in front of his row and dropped. Which was exactly when things started looking up because the disembodied female voice belonged to a very nicely bodied female in a form-fitting, deep-plum wrap dress. And he was going to be sitting right next to Miss Plum the whole flight. Suddenly he forgot that his body was twisted into the shape of a pretzel. In fact, if Eberts had been there at that moment, he would cheerfully have kissed him.
He put on his most charming smile and reached out a hand to introduce himself, but Miss Plum apparently had bigger fish to fry. She dropped her briefcase, grabbed the overstuffed duffel, climbed onto her seat and commenced trying to force the luggage into the overhead compartment. As Miss Plum pushed and shoved at the obstinate bag, the hemline of her dress, already at his eyelevel, rose and plunged like the surf with her every effort. And so Darien faced yet another ride on the moral roller coaster that was his life.
"To peek or not to peek/That is the question." He wondered whether Shakespeare would have approved of that particular paraphrase. Darien suspected he would have, since ole Will had been a pretty randy guy himself. The devil on Darien's shoulder was just about to light a victory cigar, when Darien caught a look at the teenage boy in the aisle seat across from Miss Plum. The kid, who had obviously never even considered fighting temptation, actually winked at him. 'Great,' he thought, 'I'm about to give in to the impulses of a 15-year old.'
He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and then put on his best "Darien Fawkes to the rescue" face. "Excuse me, miss," he started. She just continued to fight with her bag, too engrossed in her battle to hear him. "Uhm, miss...." He reached up and gently tapped her on the back, which startled her. Which wasn't really all that good, because she lost her balance. Which was definitely not good because she and the duffel-of-death fell in a heap in the middle of the aisle. Not really the kind of rescue he'd had in mind, he thought.
"Ahhh, I'm, ahh, sorry. I just, uhm, thought, you know, maybe it might be better if I, ah, you know, put the bag into the overhead for you." He unfolded his limbs as he stood up from his seat and promptly whacked his head on the underside of the overhead. He could hear his inner-Bobby Hobbes intone: 'Oh, smooth, Fawkes, real smooth.'
She blinked deep blue eyes at him and grinned wanly. "Are you OK?"
"Who me? Yeah, yeah, I'm just peachy." He made his way out into the aisle. Hoisting the duffel he rammed it into the overhead while the kid shot daggers into his back. "There you go. See, nothing to it." He put his charming smile back on and turned around to face her ... with his chest.
He watched as her head snapped back and up. She blinked again. "Good god, you're tall," she blurted out. "Oh, oh, I'm sorry. My bad. Here you are helping me and I go and ..."
"No, no, it's OK," he laughed, "I actually get that a lot." He started folding himself back up to return to his seat by the window and groaned.
"Are you sure you're OK?"
"Yeah, it's just that, you know, economy class ain't exactly a trip to Disney World for me here."
"Hmmm, well, I can understand that. But, hey, why are you sitting in a window seat? Wouldn't you be more comfortable on the aisle? I mean, at least you could stretch your legs out some .... "
"Oh, I guess it's just those kooky airline folks and their goofy senses of humor," he waved his boarding pass at her.
She looked at his seat assignment for a second, then huffed. "Well listen, I've got the aisle seat right next to you. Why don't we switch?"
He just stared at her for a second, not daring to believe his salvation was at hand -- and in a purple dress no less. "Wow. That, that would be great. Only if you don't mind, of course."
"Oh no, I don't mind. After all, you did come to my rescue with my bag. It's the least I can do." She grabbed her briefcase and started into the row before Darien had a chance to come all the way out. For a moment they were pressed up against each other as they tried to slide past in the narrow space. He finally reached behind her and pulled up the armrest between the two seats so she had a little more room to maneuver. In doing so, he might have let his hand rest on her rump for a second or two longer than was strictly necessary, but, hey, he was the hero here, wasn't he?
They finally managed to squeeze past each other and she busied herself with settling into the window seat, removing a large drawing pad and some colored sketching pencils from her briefcase before shoving it under the seat in front of her.
Darien felt the plane push away from the gate as he lowered himself into the coveted outer seat, stretching his legs into the aisle. Ignoring the stewardesses as they began their mandatory safety drill, he sighed contentedly, then turned to Miss Plum and held out his hand. "I'm, ah, Dar...."
"Ray Miller."
Darien jerked and looked hard at her. "That's right. How'd you know?" He'd forgotten that Eberts had made his airplane reservations in the name of one of his former aliases. He hadn't been crazy about the idea, but the 'Fish and Hobbes had argued it was a necessary precaution, just in case Chrysalis or Arnaud were keeping tabs on flights into and out of Sacramento, hoping to catch Darien on one of his infrequent visits to his Aunt Celia. Now this woman had just pulled that name out of the thin air.
"Oh, I, ah, peeked at your ticket attached to your boarding pass." She raised her eyebrows and grinned sideways at him.
"Hmmm, I see. Well, you know what curiosity got the cat, don't you?"
"Ah, but if you recall, satisfaction brought him back, no?"
"Why, yes, that's right. I'm impressed." He twisted in his seat to face her more fully and lowered his voice. "Now, when are you going to satisfy me?"
"I beg your pardon." Miss Plum suddenly transformed into Darien's third-grade teacher as her eyes hardened and the smile slid off her face.
"By telling me your name, of course." He raised his own eyebrows and grinned back at her.
"Of course." Her features softened as her fair skin flushed. "I'm Lola. Lola Gerot."
"As in, 'Whatever Lola wants ...." He conducted a pretend orchestra with his finger.
"'Lola gets.' Yes." She laughed lightly, shaking her head. The scent of vanilla sugar and almonds wafted up and tickled his nose as her dark, chin-length hair rustled with the movement. "My mother was an amateur actress. When she became pregnant with me, she was starring in a neighborhood production of 'Damn Yankees.'"
"Let me guess -- she was Lola?"
"Give the man a cigar. Hey, it could have been worse. When my sister was conceived she was starring in the church production of 'Camelot.'"
"Oh, she didn't."
"Oh, she did. My sister's name is Guinevere."
"Ouch." And he'd thought Darien was an unusual name.
She chuckled. "Yeah, Gwen's not too fond of it either."
The pilot's voice came over the loudspeaker, informing the flight attendants to prepare for departure. With the roar of the engines effectively finishing their conversation, Darien looked over at Lola and smiled again as the plane left the ground. Yes, this flight was definitely taking off.
Once in the air, the flight attendants began making the rounds offering drinks and pretzels to the passengers. The kid across the aisle continued to stare at Darien, who sat next to Lola, trying to drum up a way to restart their conversation. She was sitting quietly, concentrating on sketching something in her pad. He tilted his head to get a better view. It was a nice little still life of richly colored packages tied with gilt ribbons. Tucked in here and there were roses in all stages of bloom and varying from a vibrant, deep scarlet to a pure white edged in the palest pink.
"That's pretty. Are you an artist or something?"
She stopped sketching for a moment, then continued without looking up at him. "Or something."
"Hmmm, I see. Are we going to have to revisit the whole curiosity/satisfaction thing again?" He gave her the merest taste of his sad puppy eyes. It wouldn't do to look too pathetic too soon, he thought.
She cocked her head, looked at him and put down her pencil. "No, we aren't. I am an artist of sorts. I specialize in edible art."
"Edible art?"
"Yeah, like one-of-a-kind wedding cakes, which is exactly what this is." She handed him the sketchpad so he could take a better look.
"You mean this is going to be a *cake*?" She nodded at him. He looked more closely at the sketch. It was incredibly intricate. Each package had its own textured wrapping paper. The ribbons and bows looked as if they'd been tied by hand. The flowers appeared to have just been cut from the garden. "That's incredible."
"So I've been told. They taste good too. That's a problem with a lot of other chefs' cakes. They concentrate so hard on making the cakes look good that they forget people have to eat them." She lifted her chin and gave a silent little sniff as she said the last part.
He looked at the sketch again; there had to be a *ton* of work involved in making one of these things. "They must cost a bunch."
"Well, that one there is going to cost the happy couple about $750." Darien let out a low whistle. "Hey, that's a small price to pay for the crowning glory at their wedding. Besides, these folks can afford it, believe me."
"So that's what you do, huh? Make fancy cakes for rich snobs?" He let out a soft snicker.
"Don't knock it. It's a decent living. Besides, I like to think of it as helping people celebrate the really important events in life. It may seem like a lot for a cake, but what kind of price can you put on a memory?"
"Well, I guess when you put it like that..."
"That's right." He watched her mouth turn into a smug smile, the groaned inwardly, tensing for what was coming next. "So what do you do, Mr. Miller?"
Darien thought quickly, then spouted out, "I'm, ah, in security."
"You mean like a security guard?"
"No, no," he shook his head, "More high tech."
"Oh, you mean like those alarm systems and stuff?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's it. My, uhm, partner and I, we, ah, specialize in large scale security systems. You know, like in corporations and banks and, uhm, those kinds of things." Okay, so that was about the most transparent lie he'd ever told, but hell, it was definitely better than Hobbes' textile line.
She opened her mouth to say something else, but was preempted by the captain's voice over the loudspeaker. "Well, folks, I'm sorry to have to inform you but we're going to be returning to Sacramento. There's a couple of warning lights that have come up in the cockpit. It's probably nothing to worry about, but these days it's always better safe than sorry."
With September 11 still fresh in everyone's memories, a hushed gasp rose from the passengers as the plane executed a wide turn back to where they'd come from. The stewardesses hurried to and fro, trying to calm the more agitated flyers while getting their gear stowed back away.
Darien watched silently as Lola simply took the sketchpad away from him and stashed it in her briefcase with her pencils. Then she put her seat back and closed her eyes, calmly waiting for the plane to land. Darien looked at her sitting there completely unruffled. She was either the coolest traveler he'd ever seen or ... it was almost as if she'd been expecting it. Ok, where had that thought come from? Maybe he was giving his inner Bobby Hobbes just a little too much free reign over his psyche these days. Darien grimaced, sighed and decided to follow Lola's lead, reclining his seat and blocking out the panicked vibe permeating the cabin.
The plane landed and the passengers disembarked. Darien grabbed his own bag from under the seat, stepped into the aisle and was promptly bowled over by his teenage nemesis making a mad dash for the cabin door. With a loud, "Excuse me," directed at the kid's departing back, he collected himself again and grabbed both his and Lola's bag. Departing the plane with Lola in tow, he deposited both their bags at the edge of the disgruntled mob surrounding the airline counter.
While they waited for news on the next flight to L.A. and what was going to happen to their connecting flight to San Diego, Darien tried to nonchalantly stick as close to Lola as he could. Flights between Sacramento and L.A. were scarce enough thanks to the airline schedule cutbacks stemming back to 9/11, but connecting flights to San Diego were almost non-existent these days. Finally a beleaguered voice came over the P.A.: "United Airlines regrets to announce the cancellation of flight #120. Our next flight to L.A. won't be leaving until tomorrow morning. If you'll return at that time, we'll do our best to accommodate you on that flight. Those needing lodging for the night, please see one of the two agents at baggage claim seven."
Lola groaned, grabbed the strap on her duffel and began to drag it towards the escalator. Darien quickly stepped next to her. "Here, why don't you let me carry that for you?"
"Oh, no, it's OK. I take this thing everywhere. I'm used to it."
"Yeah, I'm sure you are. But I don't mind and it really looks way too heavy for you."
Lola gave a sigh that Darien thought sounded somewhere between frustration and resignation, and dropped the strap. "It's very kind of you, but completely unnecessary."
He grabbed the strap and hoisted the bag. "I know. But hey, rescuing damsels in distress is sort of a hobby of mine."
She reached out to snatch the strap back. "Who said I was in distress? I'm not helpless, you know. I told you, I carry it all the time."
He smoothly moved ahead of her grasp. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you're helpless. It's just that, you know, if you're going down to the baggage claim, and I'm going down to the baggage claim, why should you bother with it, right?"
"Well, OK," she said, following him onto the escalator. "I take it that you're going to be staying in whatever dump they decide to put us up in tonight too."
"Yeah, I guess I am," he replied as they reached the baggage claim area and looked around for the two airline agents. She spied them first and dashed over with Darien hurrying to keep up under the weight of the luggage. For someone so reticent to let him carry her bag, she'd certainly gotten accustomed to the idea pretty quickly. 'Just like a chick,' he thought, 'All no, no, no I can do it myself until they rope you into doing it for them.'
Darien lay on the bed flipping through the meager channels his TV offered. His eyes wandered around his tiny room. One bed with a threadbare flowered comforter. Orange carpet with burnholes. Matching tweed curtains with a thick layer of dust at the top. Quite the luxury suite he had here at the Vagabond Inn. Lola was right. The airline had found the worst dump in Sacramento to house them this evening.
He rubbed his face, sighed and checked his tattoo absently. It was almost halfway red, just as he'd suspected. He mentally tabulated his sanity ledger. He'd had his shot on Thursday and hadn't left for Cold Springs until Friday morning. It was now Sunday night, which gave him until Wednesday before he was ready for the rubber room. 'All the time in the world,' he thought ruefully. His stomach growled, interrupting his silent accounting. He flicked off the TV and decided to go down to the bar for a burger and a beer.
Entering the dimly lit lounge, Darien did a quick sweep of the place before spying Lola, sitting at the bar and sipping something amber colored out of a martini glass while staring at the TV overheard. 'Almost as if she's waiting for me,' he thought. Darien walked over next to her, leaned against the bar and grinned. "So what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"
"Please tell me you don't actually use that line."
"No, no, not usually. But to tell the truth, I have always wanted to say it."
She laughed and gave him a conspiratorial look. "You know what I've always wanted to say?"
Darien popped a few beer nuts in his mouth and shook his head.
"Fancy meeting you here!" She giggled and took another sip of her drink.
Darien laughed politely and swallowed more nuts. "So, uhm, really, what's up?"
"Well, I have just successfully fended off the advances of three very drunk businessmen and ordered some dinner."
"Hmm, sounds good. That's why I came down here too."
"To fend off drunken businessmen?" She took another sip and put her empty glass down.
"No, to get some dinner." He smiled broadly. "I'm thinking this place looks a burger barn."
"Oh, good choice, sir." She nodded approvingly.
"Can I get you something?" The bartender's question momentarily intruded on their verbal jousting.
"Uh, yeah, I'll have a bacon cheeseburger, rare, and a draft. Oh, and another of whatever the lady's having." Darien looked over at Lola. "That is if the lady doesn't have any objections. I wouldn't want to get brushed off like those other three guys."
"Oh, no, Mr. Miller, I'd be happy to dine with you in this fine establishment." She swiveled her stool seat to face him, crossed her legs, leaned against the bar and smiled right back at him. "It's a Rob Roy, extra cherries, please."
"Well then," he said to the bartender, "that should do us for now."
The bartender turned to Lola. "So, ah, you want I should bring your food with his?"
"Mmmhmm," she nodded her assent, looked around, then pointed to the empty table in the corner. "But could you please have the waitress bring it to that table?"
"Sure, no problem." The bartender gave Darien a knowing smile that was the visual equivalent of a low five. Darien stepped away from the bar while Lola slid off the stool and grabbed her purse from the seat back. They looked at each other for a second, smiled and then with a sweep of his arm he gestured for her to go first. "After you, mademoiselle."
She walked past him towards the table. "It's madam."
"Huh?"
"It's madam, actually. You called me mademoiselle. Gerot is my married name. Therefore it's madam."
"Oh, uh, wow," Darien felt his spirits sink. "I'm sorry. I, uh, didn't realize. You're not wearing a ring." They sat across from each other at the table as he struggled to get a handle on his discomfort. When he worked up the courage to look her in the face again, she was laughing.
"Relax, Ray. It's OK. I'm divorced; I just kept my married name," she grinned at his blush. "Though I am flattered to know that you checked for a ring."
She stopped speaking as the waitress put their drinks in front of them. She picked hers up, eyed the three cherries in the bottom of the glass thoughtfully, then poked her fingers in and snagged one. She popped it in her mouth and smiled as she chewed.
"Besides," she said, leaning over the table to him. "We're just having burgers. Last I heard having burgers together was a completely innocent occupation." She pulled back and eyed him like he was the last cherry in her drink. "Unless of course there's something I should know about the way you eat your burgers."
OK, he could recognize open flirting when he saw it. Darien relaxed his shoulders and mentally patted himself on the back with a silent 'You da man!' He leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms behind his head and gave her a studied look. "Somehow, Lola, I don't think any activity is completely innocent when you're involved."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Mushroom Swiss?" They both turned their heads to look at the waitress who had somehow snuck up on them while carrying two large plates of burgers and fries.
"Ah, that's me," Lola pointed at her place setting and the waitress put her plate down.
Darien smiled at the waitress, "Which I guess makes me ..."
"Bacon cheese. Yeah, I got it, Einstein." The waitress dropped his plate in front of him and left.
"Ooooh, I think she likes you." Lola held up her monster burger and took a strategic bite.
"Yeah, you think so?" Darien picked up his own burger and dove in, covering himself in grease and ketchup.
As he swiped at his face with his napkin, Lola giggled. "Oh yeah, you're a real charmer. She's a sure thing, baby."
"Why Miss Lola, you say the sweetest things," he mock drawled. She giggled again and they passed their meal that way, chatting companionably and making up tall tales about the people in the bar. The woman sitting by the jukebox was a runaway mafia bride. The two men playing pool were actually professional card sharps on their way to Vegas. He almost choked on his hamburger when she decided that the portly, balding, middle-aged guy at the end of the bar was secretly a crime-fighting superhero.
They lingered a bit after they finished, sipping the bar's insipid coffee. Finally, Lola stretched her arms up and yawned. "Well, I guess I'm going to call it a night, Ray. Gotta get to that airport bright and early, you know. How much do I owe for dinner?"
"Forget it. It's on me."
"Oh, no. I couldn't. That's completely not necessary."
"No, really. I want to. Besides, what's a couple of burgers between friends, right?"
"Well, OK, but hey, listen, I'll get breakfast."
"Really?" Darien's eyes brightened and his grin grew wider as his eyebrows flew up.
Lola laughed at him again. "Relax, Ray. Breakfast comes free with the room in this joint. I'll meet you for coffee in the lobby at 7, OK? We can share a cab back to the airport."
Darien pouted playfully. "Well, OK, I guess," he said doing his best 5-year-old imitation. She held out her hand. Darien took it, squeezed it, then shook it firmly.
"Good night, Lola."
"Good night, Ray. Sweet dreams." Then she was gone.
Darien sat, sipping his coffee and scratching his chin. It had been a long time since he'd had such a pleasant evening, filled with amusing conversation, relaxed conviviality and absolutely no fear of someone trying to kidnap or kill him. It was almost as if he'd been normal again.
The phantom scent of vanilla sugar and almonds wafted back to him, like an old friend he hadn't thought of in years. What was it called again? Frangipani. Yeah, that was it. His mother had been partial to it. Like Lola, she had been a woman bubbling over with silly stories, laughter, and the scent of vanilla sugar and almonds. She hadn't been able to afford many luxuries, what with being a single mother and trying to make ends meet. Feeding and clothing her two boys had always come first, but there had usually been an inexpensive -- well, OK, cheap -- bottle of cologne from the five-and-dime on her dresser.
One night, when his mother had been out on one of her dates, he'd snuck into her bedroom and sat staring at the near-empty bottle on her dresser, trying to sound out the unfamiliar word, tripping over it by mistakenly using a hard "g" sound every time.
"Frangi ... franga ...."
"Hey, what are you doing? You know you're not supposed to be in here." Kevin stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, trying to give off all the air of authority a 10-year old could to his kid brother.
"I'm not touching nothing, Kev. It's just that, well, you know that perfume mom always wears?"
"Yeah."
"I was thinking, if we knew what kind it was, maybe we could save up some money -- like birthday money or our allowance -- and see if we could buy her a bottle, like a Christmas present, you know, only it's not Christmas."
Kevin smiled at his little brother, sat down on the bed next to him and ruffled his hair. "You know what, D, that is a *great* idea. It's fran-ji-pan-e," Kevin pronounced it slowly and waited for Darien to say it back to him.
"Fran-ji-pan-e. Got it."
"If you wanted to know what it was called, you should have just asked me. I could have told you," Kevin stood and grabbed his brother's hand. "Now, come on and get back to bed before Mrs. Creedy wakes up from her nap on the sofa and we both get in trouble."
"OK, Kev," Darien followed his older brother to the bedroom they shared. "But you know, sometimes I like to figure things out for myself."
"That's good, D," Kevin tucked his brother into bed and flicked off the light before climbing into his own bed.
"Hey, Kev?"
"Yeah."
"We'll go tomorrow and see how much that perfume's gonna cost, right?"
Kevin yawned, closed his eyes. "Yeah, D. We'll go tomorrow."
But they hadn't gone the next day, because their mother hadn't returned home that night or any other night. Instead they'd buried her, but not without her beloved perfume. Darien had gone to the store himself and snatched a small bottle off the shelf when no one was looking. He'd snuck that bottle into her coffin during the wake, because he couldn't bear to think of her, even in death, without the smell of vanilla sugar and almonds surrounding her.
And now Lola had popped into his life out of the blue, bringing that scent back to him. Life was weird that way, man. Every time you turned around there was another déjà vu staring you in the face. Darien rubbed his eyes, shook his head and took one last sip of his coffee. He signed the bill to his room, then got up from the table and quit the bar.
As Darien left, Lola's portly superhero made his way to the pay phone at the back of the bar. He dialed a number, heard it ring and waited for an answer.
"Stark."
"Yeah, it's me. He's traveling under the name of Ray Miller, but we have visual confirmation of his identity. It's Darien Fawkes, for sure."
"Good work. What's his next move?"
"He's just finished dinner and is heading back to his room. He's supposed to catch a flight out to L.A. in the morning. It'd be a piece of cake to snatch him tonight if you want."
"He's on his way back to L.A. in the morning, you say? And our other agent is still in play?"
"Yes on both counts."
"Well, then, let him get to L.A. on his own and we'll grab him there. It'll be easier than trying to drag him all the way back here against his will. I'll have Connor and his men waiting at LAX. You and your partner just stick close to Mr. Fawkes and do *not* screw this up."
"Don't worry, Stark. I may just be a freelancer and not be one of your wunderkinds like your other agent, but I am capable of tailing a guy. You'll get Fawkes in L.A."
"Make sure that I do. I'm not a man who handles disappoint well, Clyde."
