Tense silence filled the car as Sam drove her Bugatti with little enthusiasm, passing other cars mechanically on the freeway and losing cops here and there. I passed the time unloading and reloading my .33 again and again, only stopping when Sam gave me a long, searing look.

"It's gonna be fine, Spazz." She popped a Marbol in her mouth and lit it, ignoring my look of disgust. "We pop in, gain some intel, place a chip on some poor chump and camp out for a while. Kyle said we won't have school for a week. That's plenty of time to shut down a mafia boss, right, Jazz?"

"Don't involve me." Kyle had stayed in South Park for this particular trip. "I'm still against this whole thing. It would be easier if you just gave me a few days of hacking and cross-dressing their records—"

"Aw, but that's so impersonal. We provide service with a smile, right, Spazz?" I found I was too preoccupied to be even mildly creeped out by her sadistic side.

"Um, Jazz, how's he..?"

Kyle sighed at my unfinished question. "The Raven is fine, Spazz. For the last time I've got a sight on him, asked Mysterion to cover him, and engaged the security routers at your house. Seriously, stop asking me every ten minutes."

I apologized and took to running my eyes over the blueprints of the casino for the fifth time. The main floor was a geometric paradise, with plenty of space for slots and other wastes of money; the second floor was going to be easy to navigate, as it was the bar and stage hall, where I could blend in with the crowd; I only hoped that our target wouldn't get up to the third, where the private rooms and spa would make it hard for us to, as Kyle puts it, 'tiptoe on silent cat feet'.

"FUCK!" Sam and I flinched at Kyle's outburst. "God-damn porn ads keep popping up fuck-dammit!"

Yep. That's our O.S.

After another twenty minutes of driving Sam pulled up to the Castello Casino, all glimmering lights and neon stars and elegant fountains. She pulled up to the valet and stylishly slid out of the driver's seat, looking unrealistically sexy in her sleek black dress that moved with her like water and blonde wig that caught the rays of the lights.

I got out as dignified as I could manage, trying to look as though I didn't feel outrageously uncomfortable in a tux. Instead of giving me a wig, Sam had made me apply blue contacts and slicked my hair into some weird side-swirl thing, even adding a bit of powder to my jaw line.

I wondered if Craig would think I looked handsome.

We made our way up to the second floor where about thirty tables with pristine white covers and shiny candles and wine glasses were located in front of a twenty-foot stage.

We entered the place casually, Sam throwing gorgeous smiles here and there, me whispering sweet nothings in her ear and showing off more suave confidence then a Calvin Klein model. Or trying to.

Sam flagged down a waitress and ordered a scotch on rocks. After a prompt from her I ordered a white Russian and she left to get our drinks.

After she left, we sat at the bar right in front of us. Sam raised an eyebrow. "White Russian?"

I gave her a cool smile and situated myself on the stool. "I've had it before. Not too bad."

The red-headed waitress returned quicker than I expected and soon I was nursing a (very strong) drink while trying to scope out the scene and making small talk. Natural. Act natural. We're a high-class couple enjoying cold drinks and betting chips. Not assassins, no, nononono. Soon we had spotted just the man we had come for.

Norah Dillons' fiancé. He was sitting with a company of four men and three women, all dressed to impress and flashing diamonds and perfectly gelled hair. He was about 6'3", built sturdy and had rich mahogany hair and dimples that showed when he flashed his pearly whites.

"I've gotten into their system," Kyle spoke into our ears, "There are four exits on the first floor, three on the second and three on the third, including the fire escape outside the east window. Remember, you have to get up and personal with this guy. If you distract him enough he won't even notice he's been hit."

I thumbed the syringe of nano-trackers that Kyle had acquired that, once I injected them into his system, Kyle would be able to track him from any of his satellites. I wasn't going to ask how or where he got the injection, only that it had been in a box covered with Russian.

Sam—er, Nadia—smiled and licked the remaining drops of scotch off her lips. She gave me a wink. "Let's get it going."

She stood up with her remaining ice cubes clinking in the short glass and strutted like a jaguar towards the restrooms, right pass the target's table and made sure that he had checked her out before doing a double-take on him.

"Well," I could hear her through the earpiece and partially from across the room, speaking with a French accent, "Would I be wrong if I were to assume you to be Mr. Lukas Diamonte?"

Diamonte looked surprised for a split second before shifting ever so subtly in his seat to face up at her, eyes doing a poor job of stay above her bust, and saying something I didn't quite catch; Nadia laughed charmingly and stirred her leftover scotch with one finger as she sat down, much to the surprise of everyone at the table.

Things were going smooth as she made conversation with everyone at the table; and I do mean everyone. I shook my head and downed the last of my drink, wondering if maybe she should give me some acting lessons.

A few minutes ticked by and I got impatient. We don't have all night, Sam. Hurry it—what?

I noticed that quite a number of men—all armed, I could tell—had gathered at the farthest fire exit. As though—

"Shit. Spazz, Nadia, we got a problem. More and more Black Teeth are coming out of an unsupervised office on the third floor near the north wall, I've counted ten on your level, about six more—scratch that, seven—on the third, and about five making rounds on the first.

"You couldn't warn me sooner?" I muttered quietly, placing a tip on the bar and walking towards the restroom, towards Nadia, who made brief eye contact with me.

"They just appeared on my screens, Spazz. Get Diamonte bugged and get the fuck out of there."

"Hey you!" I turned to my right and found three of the Black Teeth with their hands in their pockets eyeing me warily. "Come with us."

I smoothed back my hair. "Certainly, gentlemen, but perhaps you could indulge me on the reason why?"

The leader, a lanky man with pock scars on his face, sneered. "Our boss wants to talk to you. You, too," he raised his voice, directing it at Sam, who gave him a steady glare. Next to her, Daiamonte watched it all with amusement.

"Better do as he says, love," he grasped her arm and stood her up, "come, I'll even—" He was cut off by Sam twisting his arm and throwing him over her shoulder like a sack of flour.

Instantly the Black Teeth whipped out their guns; I didn't give them a chance to fire. I lunged forward, twisting Crater-Face's wrist in a hold, slugging one with my fist and blocking a weak punch by one; they all got thrown by yours truly and I rolled to one of the tables now clear of any guests as most of the audience had fled.

Diamonte was still on his back as the other group of Black Teeth started firing. Sam and I tipped a table and took cover from fire.

"Here," I handed her the syringe. "You get him, I'll get them."

"I'll help you in just a minute."

A bullet ricocheted off the stacks of bottles behind use and produced an alcoholic waterfall. "I'll probably be done by then."

"I'll take that action."

"You're on."

"For fuck's stake, BUG HIM AND GO!"

We split up. She dove for the pretty boy, I fired three shots and shattered the light fixture above the men, stunning them long enough for me to run at them, knock two out with two quick jabs, ducked as a fist came my way, jumped from a kick, returned the favor threefold and dislocated one shoulder.

I looked up at Sam when I was done and smirked.

"Show-off," she muttered. She tapped the empty syringe and cocked her head at a bloodied, unconscious Diamonte. "He put up more of a fight than I expected."

"More security on the way. Might want to get moving."

We ran to the fire escape, feeling a breeze off the bullets that went flying past us. I shot at them, making them take cover and followed Sam down the stairs and forced open the door, setting off the fire alarm.

As the crowds of people migrated outside, we slipped in and made ourselves invisible, keeping an eye on the two Black Teeth searching for us and saw Diamonte slumped over one's shoulder, nose dripping with blood and a black eye blooming.

We sneaked through the parking lot and found the Bugatti. I gave Sam a look. "The valet—" She jingled her keys.

"What, you think I gave him my actual pair? Those he's got are fake. They'll melt if he leaves them in his pocket for too long. Which they do. Every time."

"There they are!" An enraged voice called over the commotion. We quickly got in and Sam wasted no time in starting up that thunder-like engine, backing out—I nearly pissed myself at how close we got to hitting a silver Lexus—and speeding out of the lot, leaving skid marks.

"Well," I breathed, flicking the contacts out the window, "that wasn't as inconspicuous as I would've liked."

"More fun, though."

I thought for a moment. "Yeah, more fun."

Craig's POV

I woke up. I scratched my ass, got a look at the clock, and gave the sun a mental fuck off as I rolled over and got comfortable. And then I noticed that my sheets smell weird, like coffee. And I never drink that crap, although I do indulge in a soda every now and again. I smelled them again and a wave of familiarity washed over me.

Tweek.

That jittering blonde mess smells like coffee 24/7. I swear that kid spends more time and money on his caffeine fix than a dealer on crack. You could tell what flavor he was indulging in that day just from the aroma wafting around him.

I then remembered the events that took place the past couple of nights and felt the reoccurring stone drop in my stomach. Getting strangled, beaten, driven out of my home, (shitty home that it was), and begging Tweek Tweak, of all people, for help.

Not that I don't like Tweek. The polar opposite, really; I liked when he hung around. He made things interesting. Where I will admit to being boring and uncaring, it's comical to see how much Tweek will fight the truth of how spastic and hyper-aware he is. Hyper-aware of other's feelings, what they say and what they don't say, things like that. He doesn't admit it, but he's smart like that. Smart in the department where I'm failing.

It's just that I hate to think of him getting involved in this shit. I keep having these visions of Tweek, alone in his house, with those guys busting through the door and beating the living shit out of him like animals, dragging him back to whatever hellhole they crawled out of and—

I swore and crushed my fist into the pillow, earning a less than satisfying result and rolled out of the make shift bed on the basement couch, feeling my joints pop as I stood to my full height and somehow made it up the stairs without hitting the beams a centimeter away from my head.

I expected the TV to be on, or for Tweek to be in his kitchen or tapping away on his laptop. Instead the house greeted me with silence, the only sounds being the heater and cars passing by outside.

It wasn't really that early, around 11 in the morning; but I would happily stay up till 3 and not get up until noon if the public school system would let me.

Tweek wasn't there. After checking all the rooms and calling his name twice, I found a note he had scribbled down in messy scrawl:

Craig, I hope you slept okay! There's leftover pizza and cereal and eggs if you want anything to eat. I had to help my parents out at the shop and probably won't be back till dinner. —Tweek

I stood there for a minute and finally tossed the note in the trash, making my way to the kitchen and finding the pizza box. I poured myself a glass of water and took it and the box into the living room, turning on the TV to the news channel and commenced eating the cold slices of pepperoni and black olive.

Something was bugging me. So he was out all last night till one in the morning supposedly working with Broflovski on some project, and now he's gone all day today too.

I shifted position on the couch, not paying attention to the breaking news stories. Tweek Tweak was not a social butterfly. He was terrified of people, talking to people, being around people. Usually when I asked him if he wanted to do something together he'd get all excited like hanging with me was the greatest fucking thing in the world. So one would think that me staying over would entail him wanting be here with me, right?

Was he avoiding me? Was I overstaying my welcome? Or was it just a busy couple of days with the shooting and school shutting down for a week?

Was he hiding something from me?

I shook my head. That was stupid. Tweek didn't keep secrets. He was the type who wouldn't be able to hold on to one without slowly breaking down and crying and spilling it. We found that out early on.

Tweek helped his parents out all the time at the café. No harm there. But working with Kyle Broflovski on a project? Since when were Tweek and Kyle so buddy-buddy? Then again they were in a bunch of advance classes I was out of due to my not-giving-a-fuck, so maybe they worked together there? What were they working on that required Tweek to stay till one in the morning? That's what bugged me.

A random memory popped up out of nowhere. It was freshman year, and Token and I were walking down the locker hall to meet Clyde. I remember listening to some dignified rant Token was spewing out when out of the corner of my eye I saw Tweek's tangled hair poking into my view. He was at his locker when Broflovski showed up and spoke a few things to him, pushing a piece of paper into his hand and holding eye contact with him for good few seconds before huffing away in the diva-ish was of his. When I inquired about it later Tweek insisted they were notes from chemistry. I bought it and forgot about it almost instantly.

Until now. I erratically stood up and went to get my cell, then found the Harbucks number written on a post-it note on the fridge and called it.

Tweek's father answered it. "Hello, Harbucks on Main Street, South Park. What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Tweak, it's me, Craig."

"Ah, Craig. What is it that you need? We're rather busy—"

"Is Tweek there? Your son?"

"He was, but he left a few minutes ago saying something about a project and that Broflovski kid—"

"Thank you, Mr. Tweak," I gritted out and hung up.

I felt agitated. I felt angry. Why wouldn't Tweek tell me about any of this? What the fuck was he hiding?

And why was Kyle so involved?