Sam leaned his shotgun against a chair, sat down, and took a swig from a chilled bottled beer.

"I know you're awake," he said, staring at Shawn. Shawn was seated in front of him, head tilted back and mouth agape, snoring in a ridiculously over-the-top and clearly fake manner.

Shawn stopped and frowned, his head in the same position. "No, you don't."

Sam smiled.

"I do now."

Shawn opened his eyes and looked around. He was seated in and bound to a chair with Sam situated just a few feet in front of him, facing him. Directly behind Shawn was a set of black metallic stairs, and he was imprisoned in what he figured was some sort of cheaply built loft within the bowels of the city.

"Gus?" asked Shawn, realizing that he couldn't see his partner.

"Right here, Shawn..."

Gus was seated behind Shawn, facing away from him with his back against the opposite railing. Much to Gus's horror, Fiona sat facing him, watching him through a pair of bug-eye sunglasses as she cradled an impressive and very much deadly-looking machine gun, a gun that fit her style but was perhaps overkill given the current situation.

"Marcello?"

Sam leaned back in his chair. "He's not here right now."

"Oh?" asked Shawn, his curiosity piqued.

"Well, Shawn," said Sam, gesticulating with his beer as he spoke, "Marcello is a liability. When compared to a fake psychic detective and a pharmaceuticals salesman, a known criminal and general menace to society requires a different kind of security and a different type of, uh, type of coercion."

Gus narrowed his eyes. "How'd you figure all that out about us so fast?"

Sam shrugged. "Well, given that you both had plenty of perfectly valid IDs in your wallets, it didn't take very long to find out everything we needed."

"We just did a little research," said Fiona, smiling dangerously.

"You mean you googled us?" asked Shawn, his uncontrollable urge to make smartass quips overcoming whatever fear he had regarding his current predicament.

"Oh, no, Sam, they're onto is!" said Fiona, laughing.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. Your site was cute, by the way; certainly some, uh, unique web design goin' on there. You two're actually a really smart couple of kids. But the one thing we couldn't figure out when we did that background check-"

"Web search, you mean." said Shawn.

Sam ignored him.

"We just couldn't figure out why two faux-detectives from California were not only all the way down here, but were also nosing around in our business. Nosing around where they had no place, if you don't mind me saying."

"We're here to save someone's life," said Shawn, his taste for the dramatic evident.

"Marcello's?" asked Fiona, curious.

"No, no," said Shawn. He then paused. "Well, once or twice, but our previous encounters were merely coincidences, nothing but the offspring of the whimsy of fate; you all simply sidetracked us from our true mission."

"Really?" said Sam, leaning forward. "This oughtta be good."

"I'll be honest," said Shawn, looking gravely serious, "being that this situation leaves me no other recourse. Gus and I came to Miami in attempt to rescue our mutual friend, Detective Carlton Lassiter. You probably saw his photo on some of the online Santa Barbara papers detailing our recent crime spree."

Sam nodded.

"Anyway, several surreptitious attempts have been made on Lassiter's life, but he's too proud to see them for what they are or do anything to protect himself. To put it bluntly, we figured that if we could piss him off, he'd follow us here and out of danger's way long enough for us to talk some sense into him. Somehow, we ended up here. Oh, and, and for some reason, Gus is absolutely terrified of you, Mrs. Fiona. Just throwing that out there."

"Shawn!"

"I told them I would be honest, Gus, and as they say, sometimes the truth hurts. Plus, it's, uh, you have to admit that it's pretty funny..."

"Dammit, Shawn!"

"I think it's cute," said Fiona, grinning.

"Haha, yeah, cute." said Sam. He rubbed his chin contemplatively, then continued. "Your story does seem to check out now that I think about it, however weird it and you two are."

Shawn's countenance brightened. "So does that mean that we can, y'know, leave?"

"No." said Sam, getting up and heading back around the stairs toward the kitchen.

"What?" asked Shawn, surprised at just how quickly his perceived chance at escape had been struck down.

"Michael's the leader here, obviously." said Fiona, answering for Sam. "He's currently busy elsewhere with Marcello taking his time to, ah, discern Marcello's motives. When he gets back, we'll figure out what to do with you two. Who knows? Perhaps we could end up helping each other."

"I doubt that." said Gus bitterly.

"Excuse me?" asked Fiona.

"Nothing." said Gus.

"Anyone want a yogurt?" asked Sam from the kitchen.

"Would you happen to have one of the pineapple variety?" asked Shawn, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the refrigerator.

"You're the psychic." said Sam, looking into the fridge.

Shawn shot him a glare.

"Either way, though, sadly, no. Blueberry okay?"

Shawn sighed.

"No thank you, sir."

"Suit yourself," said Sam, grabbing another beer and popping the cap off. "If you change your mind, just tell me. You two are going to be here for a while."

Shawn leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. Gus hoped that Shawn was coming up with something that would expedite their escape. Shawn hoped to take a nap.