Thanks for putting up with the irregular update schedule. Here's a long chapter for y'all :)

When a gun was suddenly shoved at his face, Finn's first thought was a regret about his shopping habits.

For the past few weeks, away from the well-stocked vending machines at HQ, he'd frequented Stallmart. But a deep, dark instinct took over in those aisles, and he always filled his cart with frivolous items: books, novelty sponges, personalized gas caps with random names. To make things worse, he'd forget to purchase the one item he really needed. And he'd always be too embarrassed to return everything. So he'd set up a Cherokeebay account, and he was pleasantly surprised with the profit he'd made— but not proud enough to tell Holley or Sid.

On this fateful day, he'd just left the shopping center, towing his navy blue cart. A nearby festival— for what, he didn't know— sent appealing smells and folk music his way. He was tempted to check it out, before he remembered the newly-purchased box of ice cream sandwiches in the cart. And his suspension ached, though he'd told the nurse he was fine to drive alone. He still wore a black brace around his front left shock absorber.

So he continued past the festivities to a winding uphill road. Greenery lined both lanes, now faded from the summer drought season. Come autumn, the area would look fit for a postcard.

(Hmm, maybe he needed to send some postcards. One to Holley, at least. She should have returned to London by now. He didn't have her mailing address, but he could always email—)

Suddenly, a car jumped out of a bush, shoving a gun toward Finn's cab. "Don't move, McMissile!"

Should've bought that propane, too.

Because if he'd bought the propane, maybe he would have taken half a second more in line. And then maybe there would have been a fender-bender, slowing traffic down. He might have taken a different route, instead of sticking to this routine, and Dimitri would be waiting for a car that was heading in the opposite direction. Or maybe he could throw some propane in Dimitri's face.

"I don't know quite what you mean," Finn said, slowing down but not fully stopping. He was holo-disguised as an ordinary Opel Commodore; maybe he could bluff his way out.

"You're Finn McMissile. The lousy British spy. Don't lie to me— I'd know your irritating fake accent anywhere."

"My accent is entirely natural!" He was certain Dimitri was just saying it to be petty, but several people in C.H.R.O.M.E.'s upper echelons had meant it genuinely ("McMissile, there's enough disguises in our line of work, you don't have to change your voice like that"). It was probably the one thing in Finn's existence that wasn't a facade.

Dimitri just stared. "I've got a metal detector. I can see all your weapons. The automatics, the treads— everything. So don't try anything funny. Just disarm."

With a long sigh, Finn pulled over and stopped. "Fine, if you insist on hovering over me."

Finn popped his guns out, making a show of detaching them. He knew he should have felt more concerned for his life than he did. But even if he didn't fear death, the concept got his gears turning. Now he had a problem to solve, a foe to defeat. And Dimitri had been hunting him for decades, so he was more of a nuisance than anything. A practice dummy. "How are you doing these days, Dimitri? It's been, what, four years since you last cornered me?"

"Three years. I am fine."

"Good, then. It's good that you're fine, and I'm fine. It's great to be fine, innit?"

"Disarm these," Dimitri snapped, prodding Finn's hubcaps. He paused when his eyes fell on the brace. "And take that off, too."

"Patience, Dimitri, I'm getting to it." He ditched his aquatic gear— he didn't know why he even brought it, there were no bodies of water around for at least 15 kilometers. "But why don't you just make things easier on yourself and pull the trigger?"

"You're worth more alive."

Finn rolled his eyes as he detached his grappling hook set from his undercarriage. "I know, but you could at least knock me out."

"I don't play in the amateur league, McMissile. I wanted to bring you in, squirming and humiliated."

"If you say so, Dimitri."

Dimitri's eyes drifted to the navy cart. "What's in there?"

"Just supper."

"Really?" The bounty hunter's aim didn't waver, but he shuffled closer to the cart. Then, for just a moment, he peeked inside.

It was the window Finn had been waiting for— Dimitri had always been easily distracted. He dropped a magnetic mine on the ground, then sped forward. Gunshots followed him all the way up the hill, but then there was a panicked shout from the bounty hunter—

Ba-boom!

Finn turned around to watch the damage unfold. The blast tossed Dimitri end-over-end, rolling down the hill. He cursed the whole while. Asphalt, weapons, and ice cream sandwiches soared upward, raining down on the neighborhood below. Screams rang out from a barbecue party in someone's backyard.

Not your best.

He grimaced, though he told himself it was because of the pain caused by his axle, and not his own thoughts. He limped back to the smoking crater in the road. Only one weapon remained— one of his guns, singed but salvageable. He popped it back into place and fled the scene.

Finn McMissile.

The car. The myth. The legend. Faked his death every few weeks, carried out the biggest stings, infiltrated the tightest rooms. Clever. Unstoppable. Practically fearless.

But not flawless.

"Fake grass," Vivian tsked when she and Dave reached McMissile's safehouse. The gated lawn was flat and even, compared to the adjacent garages' lawns. Closer to the safehouse, several plastic-looking shrubs sat under the windows, perfectly green and healthy in the middle of a summer drought. "Didn't take him as the type for something so tacky."

"He's an agent," Dave said, a tad defensively. Definitely not because he had a few faux plants in his living room. No, sir. "Fake things are their lives. And artificial turf is expensive, so he certainly has a good reason for it. There's probably a whole security system built into it."

"Do you think the kids know it's fake?"

Oh, yeah, there were children driving with abandon all over the lawn. Two girls and two boys, with one baby painted a neutral mint green. They all seemed to claim the turf as their own, covering it with donuts. Synthetic strips of grass peppered the side of the road; one corner of the turf had been uprooted.

"It doesn't seem like he's home," Vivian said, squinting. "The windows are all dark. Where should we wait?"

"Right here should be fine," Dave said. He put himself in park just outside the gate. Vivian did so too, pulling out her phone and playing a game.

But Dave stayed focused on the children. Mixed emotions tugged at his engine. He'd never had kids— never particularly wanted them. And he hadn't pegged McMissile as the type to have them (though the agent was old enough to be Agent Shiftwell's father).

A white Commodore skidded around the corner, breathing hard. He froze when he saw Dave and Vivian. Dave glanced his way and nodded. The Commodore's eyes narrowed as he approached ever so slowly. "Hello, haven't seen you around before. Are you waiting for someone?"

"We are, actually." Dave's contact had mentioned McMissile was in disguise. This car had the same voice, same guarded stance, even the same eye color as McMissile. It was worth a try to use the code. "A Volkswagen Karmann Ghia has no radiator."

The Commodore's eyes darted toward the gate, as if he considered making a run for it. Then he bobbed his hood. "That's because they're air-cooled."

"B.C. was right," Vivian muttered, "we need a new phrase. That one's getting old."

Dave ignored her, instead flashing his credentials at McMissile. "Call me Dave, Agent McMissile. My coworker and I represent an internal committee investigating the World Grand Prix. We've interviewed all of your colleagues already, and we need a statement from you."

"...Very well." The Commodore signal light flashed, and with a beep, the gate creaked open. "Alright, you kids get off my property! Go away, shoo!"

The kids shrieked with laughter, dashing through the gate and scattering.

"They've been terrorizing me since I arrived," McMissile said, crossing the yard. Dave and Vivian followed closely. "I don't know how they get in, but they often try to lure me out. I think they see me as the neighborhood mystery car, a Boo Radley type. I ignore them when I can."

Dave made a mental note to look up what a "Boo Radley" was later. "Good strategy. How'd you come up with that?"

"Kids do wild things for attention."

"You got any?"

McMissile gave him a side-eye. "Why does it matter?"

"It doesn't, really. Just clues to the puzzle."

Moments later, the garage door opened. A white forklift— probably McMissile's mandated nurse— froze in the center of the room, with several cardboard boxes balanced on her tines. In fact, there were a lot of cardboard boxes, all over the place, meticulously stacked on top of each other.

"I apologize for the… lack of parking space," McMissile stammered. He maneuvered around the box towers until he arrived at a patch of bare floor, lined with pillows. It was directly across from a television. "If I'd known there would be company, I would have straightened things up."

"I'm sure you would have," Dave said, squeezing through the maze. That was why he and Vivian had practically smuggled themselves into town on an early-morning train. They wanted the truth, and to get it, they'd need to catch McMissile off-guard. So far, it was working.

"It's just a side gig," McMissile continued. His voice was tight, as if in his panic he had forgotten to breathe. "You know, with Cherokeebay. I bought all of this from the stores in town— it's all legal. Both of you can take whatever you like. Most of this hasn't sold yet, I ship it out on the weekends—"

"Can I have this?" Vivian asked, holding up a record album. McMissile blinked, as if thinking about how much it would sell for, then nodded. Vivian grinned and stuck the record in her side pack.

McMissile closed his eyes as his disguise dissipated. He was back to his natural model— which, now that Dave thought about it, was a really bad way for a spy to go around. It was sleek, memorable— a stereotypical spy car. Why on Earth was he allowed to go anywhere out of disguise?

"Now then," McMissile said, opening his eyes, "what did you say you were here for?"

Finally. Dave didn't have to look at his list to know what he would ask first. "How could you think that Sir Mater was a spy?"

"Oh. W-Well, that's a good question. Yes, very good. I've given a lot of thought to that."

"You're stalling."

"No, really, I have. It's just—" McMissile glanced toward Vivian, who had her phone pointed toward him, no doubt recording all his efforts to stall. "I have to make sure it comes out coherently… It's a long story, you see."

"We have nowhere better to be." Except at home, making iced tea, watching telly. Dave's DVR would surely be maxed out by the time he got back. And he was pretty sure he'd forgotten to phone his mum for her birthday. Oh, well.

McMissile shifted to one side. "Mater was… in the right place at the right time. His knowledge of cars, particularly Lemons, was extremely helpful."

"This isn't about how great he was," Dave cut in, "it's about you. How long did you believe he was a spy?"

"Until… well, he'd told me a few times that he was not a spy. But I always thought he was joking— you know, keeping the cover. But the last time, it was a very serious moment. I didn't think he'd joke at that moment, and he was frustrated."

"You didn't notice that he had no weapons to speak of?"

"I assumed that was part of the cover. Team McQueen had gone through civilian airport security, he couldn't have carried any on him."

"Speaking of airports, what exactly went wrong at Tokyo International to cause so much damage? Why didn't you take Sir Mater right to the jet?"

"The jet was not at the airport when Mater arrived."

"Why?"

"Planes go wherever they wish. Ask him."

"I have spoken with him personally. He didn't mention where he went off to, so I assumed that you told him to do something."

"I did not."

"Would you say that under oath?"

"...Yes."

"Alright then. Moving on, you disguised yourself as airport security, but deactivated the disguise in a public space."

"It was a private lounge."

"Not private enough, if the Lemons followed you. As you likely know, we have a sizable base in Tokyo. You could have taken Sir Mater there, or at least gotten more security at the airport. So why did you go AWOL after meeting who you presumed to be the American agent?"

McMissile paused. "I considered that. However, I didn't think more agents were necessary. Turbo's cover was blown, and he is— was experienced with deep cover operations. I suspected there was a mole, maybe a few, who would throw a spanner in any backup plans. There always is. And even if they don't work for enemy organizations, there's plenty of untrustworthy blokes who'll ignore the rules— like whoever told you my location. Limiting communication was the only way to preserve the operation."

"But you knew the Lemon head families would be in Porto Corsa. That would have been a good time to call for a sting."

"If they saw us moving in on them, they'd run. They probably had a boat waiting in the docks, just in case."

"Did you feel obligated to finish the case by yourself? To finish Agent Turbo's work?"

McMissile was silent for a few seconds. "I knew I couldn't. That's why I brought Mater and Agent Shiftwell onboard. They have expertise that I do not."

"That's a fair point, I suppose. Though Shiftwell has given all the credit to Sir Mater for 'saving the world.' Have you heard from her recently?"

"No. I'm off the grid, for the most part."

"So you weren't aware of her recent trip to Montreux?"

"Montreux? In Switzerland?" McMissile repeated. Behind him, Vivian raised a brow.

"Yes. She didn't say why. I had to call her back from there, actually. By the way she deflected from it, I assumed it was something you put her up to—"

"No, I didn't tell her to go there. I haven't communicated with her since I arrived here."

That was true. According to records, she had sent him a few emails to check in on him, but he hadn't responded to any. Still, there was an edge to McMissile's voice, like he was suppressing something. And Shiftwell had actually planned the trip before McMissile had left the hospital. He wasn't off the hook yet.

Dave reviewed his list of questions again. "Circling back to Porto Corsa, let's move on to your capture. You were held in Big Bentley, as Sir Mater informed us."

McMissile still seemed uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but was at least able to look Dave in the eyes. "Oh, yes, I don't know how those buckets managed that. I might just visit them in prison to find out."

"Is it true that they took you via helicopter with a giant magnet?"

"I don't remember."

"How did you not see it?" Vivian jumped in. "Or hear it? Or— or even feel a strong breeze?"

"I really don't remember."

"Sir Mater also said Agent Shiftwell told him there was a helicopter."

"Mater also has a reputation for exaggerating."

"Several residents in Porto Corsa also noted there was an unmarked black helicopter hovering over a tower during the race."

At that point, McMissile deflated. "Well… yes. Yes, they used a helicopter to capture me. And then they put me in a trailer of some kind. And then we went to London, and Big Bentley. Yes, I admit it. Happy?"

Dave was happy. He now knew McMissile had no problem with lying during an official interrogation; his few tells had shown up several times. It was enough to set up more traps. "And in London, did you know there would be cameras filming Sir Mater's encounter with Axlerod? Or, for that matter, with the Queen of England?"

"Of course, but I didn't know what exactly he was doing. I had to be there to diffuse the situation. And I believe I did."

That's fair.

"So what's with the turf?" Vivian asked. "Is it, like, some elaborate security system?"

"No. I haven't been here for a while, so the neighbors complained about overgrowth. And it's safer if I don't have to mow. Speaking of… David, could you please move to your left?"

Dave obliged. McMissile's gun whipped out from his side—

Bang!

The shot shattered the window right behind Dave. Shocked, he barely registered a shadow dropping out of view.

"That one followed me all bloody week," McMissile muttered, as if he had only squashed a gnat. His gun folded away. The nurse grabbed a broom and a large trash bag on her way out. "Another one made a move just before I got here. Amateurs. Though I suppose I'll have to find a new safehouse, since this one is compromised. Is that all the questions you have?"

Dave bobbed his hood. He shuffled away from the window. "Yes, that will be all. Expect to be called back to HQ for our final review in a week or so."

"I look forward to it." Dave heard the irritated inflection of a liar again, but was too eager to get out of the garage to comment on it.

The road to the train station was closed— apparently, a gas main had burst a few hours earlier, and now there was a massive crater in the road. Dave and Vivian exchanged a look, sensing there was more to the story. The detour took ten minutes longer than the direct route. Once they arrived, it seemed they had just missed a train out; the platform was vacant. So they parked, soaking in the silence.

Vivian brought the record album back out. She whistled, turning it over. "U-2. Score. I practically grew up on this. I wonder where he found it."

"I'd hope it's not a family heirloom of his."

"It was in one of the boxes, collecting dust. And we're all about correcting injustices, right? I couldn't leave it. It's going in my collection, for sure. Anyway, what's next on the docket?"

Dave sighed. "I don't know. We've got all the major witnesses. The racers, the damage victims, the agents. There might be a few memory wipes that the other members can handle. I think you and I have finished everything."

"Thank the Maker. We can finally get back to our lives."

"..."

"You do have a life to get back to, right, Davey?"

"Of course." Working a desk at HQ by day, watching telly alone by night. "But now that I think about it, there is one more loose end we need to investigate: Montreal, on the days before we brought Shiftwell in. We need to scrub through CCTV footage. Find out what she did, where she went, who she talked to."

"How is that related to the WGP?"

"It's probably not. However, it reflects the trustworthiness of their witness statements. And they've both been cagey about it— at this point, I'm just curious."

"Would you say you still haven't found what you're looking for?"

"...No. Just no."

"Good."

Next chapter will be the last, y'all I can't believe it's gotten this far And if you recognize any movie references, drop it in the comments for a cookie 🍪