Bait.

May of 1992.

New York City, USA.

He called at six sharp.

"How is the weather?"

I answered simply, "Windy."

"Good to hear from you, Michael. I was worried when I heard you went missing in Poland." He sounded like his usual self, all business, but there was a vein of stress in his tone. "I received the report you and Larry compiled on the files Meyer requested." I heard tapping in the background, like he was searching through a computer. "I see you honed in on a number of things, but you were overall uncertain what he might be after."

"It was too much information to summarize."

"Right, right." Card tapped some more, and then said, "I want you to set up another meeting and give Meyer the information he asked for."

I looked up and found all eyes on me.

We were all in the hotel room I had dragged myself to on my first day in the city, assembled here at the crack of dawn on the promise of new orders. Sam was sitting with Thompson near the window. Larry was at the table, his cold blue gaze locking into mine.

I turned away from them, toward the blank television screen, and said, "What?"

"I want you to give him what he asked for."

"Why?"

His tone darkened. "Michael, I'm giving you a direct order."

"I will, but why?"

"We want to know what Meyer will do with the information, and if you keep him waiting, you'll lose the connection you made with him. Our best bet is to give it to him and watch carefully." He was quiet for a moment, "I want you to think on it, sport. Sometimes it's worth the risk to just give the enemy what they want. Can you think of any other way to expedite the situation? We have a big fish on the line here. I'm all ears."

I shook my head, and said reluctantly, "No, sir."

"Set up the meet. Let us know when the information is delivered. Good luck."

His plan was reckless, but I had nothing better to offer. It was smart of Meyer to request so much information, so that the purpose of it would be impossible to discern. Only he knew what he was looking for. We had to search through stacks and stacks of jargon, and he just turned to the specific page he wanted. It put us at a serious disadvantage – and it showed, since our only solution was to give him what he wanted and wait to see what would happen.

Sam was not keen on the idea, but he came with me anyway. I had already told Card that we met the boss together, and that Meyer would be expecting to see Sam. He didn't have to know that no one had actually seen Sam yet. I would much rather bring him along than Larry.

I took the ride in silence, gazing out at the street, trying to put the puzzle together and find a better way out. It was probably very simple. But it was out of my reach.

When our limo, driven by Thompson, was stopped in front of the Meyer building, I finally looked at my companion. We were dressed down in crisp black suits, like two secret agents right out of the movies. Only we were playing different roles, menacing ones. We were pretending to be the criminals, the monsters, the moneymakers.

"Did you come up with a name?" I wondered.

Sam smiled, "I had a lot of time to think on it last night." He pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his blazer pocket and slipped them on. Now he looked like a real business mogul, with his brown hair slicked back and his strong jaw set in a scowl. "Billy fields, meet the boss. You can call me Finley." He pretended to put a cigar in his mouth, "Chuck Finley."

I grimaced, "I guess that works."

"You guess?" He looked devastated. "Mike, I dare you to find a more menacing name!"

"Can you do menacing?"

"Oh, boy, you bet I can. I'll show you how we do it, old school style. Prepare to get your socks knocked off."

Meyers was not at his desk when we arrived. I sat in the same spot I had the first time I met him, and Sam sat by my side, wearing a scowl and barely bothering to look around. I straightened my suit a few times in an effort to appear nervous.

He made us wait twenty minutes before he showed. His eyes went straight to Sam, brimming with curiosity as he situated himself behind his desk. For several seconds, no one said anything. I was impressed with Sam – our previous missions together did not showcase his self-control. He had tucked the goofy, warm side of himself away expertly.

"Welcome back, Mr. Fields," Meyers said at last, though he was looking at Sam. "I assume this is the boss you told me so little about. Aren't you going to introduce us?"

I cleared my throat, "Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Meyers, I would-"

"I can speak for myself," Sam interrupted in a cool, emotionless voice. He did not offer his hand, only stared at Meyers, "Chuck Finley. I have interest in doing business with you."

"Well, Mr. Finley-"

"Call me Chuck," Sam said.

His presence was powerful. It evoked a little uncertainty from their company. Sam launched off, "You've been into kid stuff up to this point, Mr. Meyer, despite your significant wealth and sphere of influence. I would be embarrassed for you – if I gave a shit what you did with your name. I'm here to offer you a chance to step up and join the big boys, take your company to the next level. Or help you pursue your other interests. You see, I have connections that big names in the business world wet their pants over. I have the resources to make your dreams – whatever they may be – a reality. In exchange for using my resources, I only ask for simple things in return. Maybe an invitation to an exclusive party. Maybe you look the other way when I ask you to."

Sam got up, and movement near the door suggested the security guards were getting nervous about him. I tensed, ready to defend him if it came to that. Meyers watched Sam closely, plucking at the corner of a document on his desk, trying not to betray that he was nervous. Sam kept their eyes locked together, like a snake seducing his prey, until he finally looked away to the windows.

He was a top-notch actor, down to the way he squared his shoulders, the strong set of his jaw, the greedy glint in his eyes – the way he scowled down at the city like he wanted to be elsewhere.

"I brought you what you asked for, as a show of good faith."

Sam placed the drive on the desk, letting two of his fingers slip off of it slowly, like he was loath to depart from it.

"I believe we can begin a relationship here, Mr. Meyers. You roughed up my associate here, but I'm in a forgiving mood. Men like you don't need more enemies. So, let's be friends."

I barely breathed as the seconds ticked past, and neither of them said anything, and no one moved. If he had some sort of distress signal for his security, Meyers had not signaled them yet. He may have had a panic button under his desk, but his hands were on the surface.

Finally, Meyers said, "I'm listening." He drew the drive toward him.

Sam smiled, "I left my contact information on that. If you want something in the future, you just come to your old buddy Chuck Finley, eh?"

We left, and it was all I could do to hold my composure. We took the stairs, because I was paranoid they would divert the elevator, or view us on the security footage – at least on the stairs Sam was too occupied to speak. He was out of breath at the bottom.

"You tryin' to kill me, Mike?" he huffed.

I shushed him, "Let's get out of here."

Thompson came around to pick us up, and once the doors were shut, I could finally breathe again. I punched Sam in the shoulder, "That was not the script!"

"I improvised," Sam shrugged, "You saw that guy. He was power playing us, so I power played him right back."

"You could have gotten us both killed!"

"Yeah, but I didn't. And I think Meyers is intimidated by me."

"We don't want him to be intimidated by you! We want him to think he can control you!" I groaned, trying to gather my thoughts through my frustration.

"I was good though, right? Right? Come on, you know I was good."

I said nothing, fuming.

"Well, it's done now. We gave the secret information to the bad scary guy." Sam folded his arms, kicking his feet up on the seat, "I just hope none of that had launch codes in it."

"It didn't."

I tried to relax. He was right. It was done now, and there was no going back. I had planned to have Meyers use us like an asset, but now he seemed hesitant of this Chuck Finley character. I had no doubt he would use the information we had given him, but would he dare ask for more now? Could we keep him on the line like this?

Sam raved about his performance all the way to the hotel, only quieting as they approached the room. He said, "Sorry, anyway. I would have warned you, but it happened so fast."

"It's fine, Sam."

Sam flopped down on the first bed and I headed to the bathroom, but it was occupied. The door swung open on Larry sitting on the edge of the tub.

He had his gun in his hand, and a black dusting cloth wrapped around the hilt. I saw the unmistakable rust of blood on the gun. He smiled when he saw me, "Hey, kid, how did your little meeting go?"

I said, "Whose blood is that?"

"I have my own mission," Larry responded simply, wrapping the gun in the cloth and setting it on his lap. "Now, tell me about the meeting."

I hesitated, thoughts racing. It had been precious and blissful on this mission, far departed from the last one – so departed that I had almost forgotten what we were. I knew why his gun had blood on it. I knew how that spatter pattern was produced. He had struck someone with the butt of it, someone who was already bleeding. He had probably turned around and shot them afterwards. He would have cleaned up the scene, made it look like some kind of mugging, and gone about his day like nothing happened.

But who did he kill? Was this related to the Poland mission, or was it something separate? Since he was in New York, was the agency just picking out targets for him while he was bored?

I swallowed my doubts, ignored his question, and shut the door.