He was sitting in one of their 'host's 'overstuffed stairs, drinking a glass of the same man's (very good) vintage wine and half listening to the news that Mick was avidly following. The manager of the jewellery store that had been the scene of their latest heist was giving an impromptu interview, berating them both and giving an exaggerated account of the sufferings he and his two staff had endured, while locked in the store cupboard. By the time a detective came on screen and began with the usual spiel about 'every effort being made to try and apprehend the perpetrators', he'd begun to lose interest. He glanced out of the window and - for a moment - he saw Blondie standing there.
He didn't know who she was - had no memory of meeting her, although she did seem familiar. She would appear at times when his mind was only partly occupied with whatever he was doing. There was psychic ability in his mother's side of the family - he usually knew when someone's attention was focussed on him - but this was something quite different.
The news bulletin had switched to international news, so Mick had gone to continue his search for beer and to raid their 'host's' larder. Looking around, he began to speculate how the property owner - a minor, run of the mill, politician - could afford the items cluttering up his weekend getaway place. If he'd had the time, he'd have considered removing the more valuable items - another surprise for the man, when he next left Washington - but he'd promised Mick they could celebrate this latest heist by spending a couple of weeks with Joanne.
His mind slid back to the first meeting with her, ten years ago. They had been sitting in a bar, having a couple of beers, when he realised that Mick's eyes were focussed on something beyond him. Turning round, he'd seen a woman apparently thinking only of her own drink. Then she'd turned and looked at them. After a moment she smiled - smiled at Mick. They'd been an item ever since.
Mick had come back into the lounge, having found his beer and a freshly heated pizza, when the doorbell rang.
They looked at each other for a moment.
''I'll get it'' Len murmured. He had already prepared a story about being friends of the owner and had dug out a few lesser-known facts about the politician when he had been planning for them to overnight here on their way to Joanne's place.
A man and woman were standing just outside. He thought he half-recognised them both - the man more than the woman.
It was the former who said ''Oh good, it's you'' and pointed some kind of device at his face.
His reflex carried one hand towards his Cold Gun - which of course he'd taken off - while the other began to fist its way towards the man's face. He wasn't quick enough and found that he was beginning to fall, his vision darkening. His last memory was hearing a roar of rage as Mick charged towards the two newcomers.
