Awaking grudgingly after a restless, far too brief night's sleep, Vickie peeked into the kitchen and found that her teammates had beat her to breakfast again. Such as it was. Mike and Becki sat at the table, picking at leftovers from yesterday's breakfast. Josh was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey, guys," Vickie greeted them softly--but apparently not softly enough, for both their heads snapped around to watch her anxiously.
"Hey, V," said Mike. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," she said, inwardly a little surprised to discover that this was true. Somewhere between her adventures the night before and what little sleep she'd gotten after them, she had calmed down, gained perspective on the tensions that had driven her away from the apartment.
None of which Becki and Mike knew anything about, however. Likely that explained the wary looks they were giving her now. "We . . . weren't sure when you got back last night . . ." Becki began, apparently trying to hint as tactfully as she could.
"Late," Vickie said. "Very late. Don't worry; I'm fine, really." She sat down to breakfast and quickly set to with a much more generous appetite than either of her teammates was showing. "And what a night it was! You'll never guess who I met--"
"Not Cheriss, I suppose?" Becki grinned.
"Sorry, no."
"Some dude wanting to sell you a shield generator cheap?" Mike put in.
"If only. No, but perhaps you found a little surprise under your doors this morning . . . ?" she prodded.
Mike and Becki exchanged a glance and then looked back to the Jedi captain. "Those were from you, then?" Mike asked. Vickie beamed.
"Vickie, dear," Becki sighed, "just how do you go wandering Paris on a random night and happen to meet both Denis Lawson and Ewan McGregor?"
"And Sheila even," Mike grinned.
"What, does being Force-sensitive magnetize you for improbable encounters like these?" Becki rolled her eyes dramatically, then giggled and impulsively squeezed Vickie's shoulders in a hug. "But really, that's cool. And thank you."
Vickie smiled and returned to her breakfast. "So. Any further developments since . . . last night?"
"Well, none that we know of," Mike said, with a shrug. "Josh stormed out just after you did. We waited up for a while, watched to see if the news would have any more about Josh N--it didn't, unless you want to count the ever-expanding list of terrorist groups claiming him. In the end, we just gave up. Figured you two would work it out on your own."
"Where is my cranky Padawan, anyway?" Vickie asked, reaching for the fruit bowl and trying to ignore a mental twinge at the thought of facing him again. Maybe she'd calmed down during her late-night adventures, but had he? They'd both said such harsh things at their last meeting.
Becki pointed out a note pinned to a banana. Curious, Vickie raised an eyebrow, took the note, and started reading.
"Something he needs to do, huh?" she murmured, absently peeling the banana. Then she paused for a moment, half-closing her eyes as she focused with the Force. "Lightsaber. He's building his lightsaber, I think. About time."
"Weird timing, though, if you ask me," Becki said. "How long will it take him to finish that?"
"It took about eight hours for mine," said Vickie. "Hm. At least he's keeping the rest of us busy while he's working on his saber." She nodded to a paragraph directing them to start following up the leads they'd gathered the previous day. Then her eyes widened as she saw that one paragraph was addressed to her individually:
"Vickie, I have to apologize. Sorry I lost my temper with you. I still don't see how Crispy could be alive, but since you're so sure of it, I want you to go back to the scene of his death and investigate. If he really survived, you're Jedi enough to find any leads there could be."
"He doesn't really believe me," she muttered.
"What?" Mike asked.
"Crispy is alive. I know it. I feel it."
Becki looked at her with eyes narrowed as if to size her up. "You're certain of that?"
"I just know it."
"So he's giving you a chance to prove it."
"Looks that way."
"Maybe he believes you more than you think."
"Or maybe he just hopes I'll prove him right and myself wrong," Vickie grumbled.
"Hey," Mike said, "for what it's worth, I believe you. Josh'll catch on eventually."
"Thanks," Vickie smiled. Then, after one last bite of the banana, she jumped up from the table. "Well, then, I'm off. Oh--by the way, did a girl come by here last night to deliver a bag of chocolate for me?"
"Chocolate?" Becki asked.
"From la Maison du Chocolat. Where I went last night to cool down. The waitress was supposed to drop off the chocolate that I bought after her shift."
Mike and Becki exchanged confused looks and then shrugged. "No chocolate here," Becki said. "More's the pity."
Vickie frowned. "I wonder what's keeping her. I'll just have to go by la Maison and complain."
"Maybe she got off work too late," Becki suggested.
"We'll see," Vickie nodded. "Anyway, when and if it ever gets here, help yourselves to it. I bought it for the group. And now I'm off, really. I will be back with Crispy. Soon, I hope."
When the apartment door had swung shut behind the Jedi, Mike and Becki grinned and returned to their unappetizing breakfasts.
"At least she's in a better mood today," Becki muttered. "Let's hope the feeling's mutual." She nodded in the general direction of the bedroom where their mission leader was currently in meditation.
"Josh would have to have calmed down quite a bit, though, to focus enough for the lightsaber," Mike pointed out.
"Yeah. Well, that helps." She sighed and pushed away her plate. "After a day of unexpected fasting you'd think I'd be hungrier, but I can't stand another bite of this."
"You should've made pancakes. We could use the luck."
"I couldn't find the ingredients."
"We'll go shopping." Mike appropriated the remainder of the banana that Vickie had abandoned in her haste to prove her Force senses right. He flicked it into the bin with a grimace. "I've got some leads on flour bargains in the épicerie down the street."
Becki chuckled. "I don't think that's quite the leads we're supposed to be working on."
"You're no fun."
"We'll just have to pick up the flour on the way home from our other leads."
"Oh, well then. Let's hurry and get them out of the way, shall we?"
"OK," Becki replied. "Just give me a second. I have to go get dressed."
"Of course you do," Mike replied. "Why would I think that you'd be ready, just because I am?"
"Hush you," Becki replied as she headed for the room she shared with Vickie. As the door shut behind her, a bell rang out in the apartment. Mike looked around.
"Can you get that, Mike dear?" Becki called out. "It's probably the chocolates Vickie arranged to have delivered."
Some covert op this is, getting chocolate delivered to our HQ, Mike thought as he moved toward the door, pulling on his coat as he walked. Opening it, he found himself confronted by a man of around his age, with slick dark hair and a blank expression to his face.
"Monsieur . . ." he began, holding out a large paper bag with 'Maison du Chocolat' stencilled on its side.
"Oh, oui, merci garçon," [1] Mike said, taking the bag from the Frenchman. Fishing in his pocket, he dug out a ten Euro note and handed it to the surprised man.
"Merci, monsieur, mon plaisir," [2] he replied. As he took the note, he awkwardly embraced Mike, as though to thank him for such a generous tip. He then turned from the door and walked away. Mike looked after him, curiously, shrugged, and stepped back into the apartment.
"Becki, breakfast!" Mike called to his wingmate. Becki stepped out of the room and looked at her wingmate. She was dressed in an outfit Mike recognised as being part of her pre-Paris wardrobe.
"Vous ressemblez beaucoup à un touriste encore," [3] Mike said, with a wince. He'd decided to practise his French while they were in Paris, but knew he wasn't as fluent as Vickie or Becki.
"An idea I had yesterday with Josh," she replied. "We can't fit in with the French so well, at least, you guys can't, so we should try to look like tourists."
"Makes sense," Mike replied. "So I don't have to speak French?"
"Not unless you want to," Becki replied, her eyes sparkling. "Okay, just a moment more while I get my things together."
"Bien," he replied. Tossing her the Maison du Chocolat bag, he wandered over to the stereo and picked up the remote control. Slumping into the sofa, he turned on the radio and began flicking through the channels, hoping to find a decent station somewhere.
"I hope Vickie finds Crispy all right," Becki muttered, looking over the Parisian map from Cheriss's backpack while stuffing whatever she thought they might need for their investigation into her own handbag.
"At least we know where to look for him," said Mike. "We don't even have a place to start if we want to find Brad."
"How do we do it, losing a full third of our team on our very first day in Paris?" she grumbled.
"Talent, maybe. Or dumb luck. We have a lot of that."
"Too true."
"Well, if anyone can find Josh, it'll be Vickie," he reassured her.
"You're probably right." Becki sighed, shouldered her bag, and then investigated the paper one that Mike had given her. Vickie's chocolates, indeed--and even when one had no appetite for breakfast, there was always room for chocolate. "Truffle?" Becki asked, around a mouthful, as she waved the bag under Mike's nose. He looked carefully into the bag, and then up at his wingmate.
"Truffle? You do know they use pigs to find those things, don't you?"
"I like them," Becki said.
"Yeah, ok, but they're dug up by pigs. And pigs are filthy animals. You think I trust any food that's found by an animal that ain't got enough sense to disregard its own feces?"
Becki looked at him, a quizzical look on her face, and a truffle halfway to her mouth.
"Sorry. Movie moment," Mike replied, a touch embarrassed. "Still, though, I'd rather not eat the truffles. Thank you, though."
Becki shrugged, and went back to her bag of treats. Mike continued flicking through the radio stations, before giving up in disgust. He flicked the off switch on the remote, and frowned when nothing happened. Aiming a little more carefully, he hit the button again, and again nothing happened.
"Damn batteries," he said, heaving himself off the sofa. Dropping the remote control onto the cushion, he walked over to the stereo, turning to say something to Becki as his finger stabbed out at the stereo's power switch--
--and his words were drowned out by an ear splitting burst of static.
Mike staggered backwards before crashing to the floor with his hands covering his ears, and the static burst faded quickly.
"What was that?" Becki asked, a look of surprise on her face.
Mike shook his head sharply, trying to clear the buzzing from his head.
"Feedback static," he replied, weakly. "That really hurt," he added, apropos nothing.
"Are you okay?" Becki asked, moving quickly from her chair to kneel beside her wingmate.
"I'll live," he replied, shaking his head. "Just got a ringing in my ears like you wouldn't believe."
"What caused that?" Becki asked, looking over at the stereo.
"I . . . don't know," Mike replied. He patted at his jacket. "I don't think my phone would have done that," he added. He slipped his left hand into a pocket, and his eyes widened. Putting a finger to his lips, he yanked his hand from his pocket. Becki heard a ripping noise, and saw Mike wince. His left hand balled into a fist and, still shushing his wingmate with his right hand, he got to his feet. Casting his eyes about, his gaze settled on the pad Josh had used the night before. Marching over to it, he scribbled something on it quickly, then picked it up as he turned to face Becki.
She stared at the pad, not quite taking it in, then moved in to read what Mike had written.
IT'S A BUG, the note read. Mike opened his hand, revealing a small, black, plastic device, with a scrap of material from Mike's coat pinned to it. Becki's eyes widened as she looked at it. "So it--" she began. Mike shook his head frantically and pointed again to the device. She grinned and nodded, silently mouthing, I know, silly. "It was your phone, after all," she continued.
Mike nodded, relieved, setting the bug down on the table and beginning to write again on the notepad. "Yeah, must have been. I don't think it's ever done that before."
"Mm. Maybe we should have Zee look at it--" Becki began, but Mike cut her off with an alarmed gesture. Becki grimaced, realizing that even Zee's identity might be--or might have been--unknown to their anonymous listener.
Mike gestured to the pad and she read what he'd added to it. LOOKS LIKE GFFA TECH.
"So, anyway," she said, talking for the bug's sake even as she took up a pencil to write a message of her own, "flour's what we need most, but I think we're almost out of eggs, too."
"Are we okay on the milk?" Mike played along, reading her message: CAN YOU DEACTIVATE IT OR SOMETHING?
"For now," she said. PROBABLY NOT, he wrote. "Unless Josh, um . . . wakes up and drinks the rest," she said, and wrote in turn, MAYBE ZEE COULD?
"Ah . . . well, maybe we'd better pick up milk too, then," said Mike, writing, IT'S NOT THAT I CAN'T. . . .
"And syrup," Becki added, watching him scribble out an explanation. "But this time, no feathers!"
The notepad now read: IF WE JUST DESTROY IT OR TURN IT OFF, THEY'LL KNOW WE'VE FOUND IT. BETTER TO LET THEM THINK WE HAVEN'T. FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE. "Right," said Mike, "hold the feathers."
Becki nodded. WHO'S THEY? DO YOU KNOW WHO PLANTED IT? she wrote.
Mike considered for a moment, tapping the pencil's end against his free hand, and then wrote, DELIVERY BOY, I'LL BET. WITH THE CHOCOLATES.
Regarding said chocolates with fresh suspicion, Becki set them gingerly back down on the table and then said, "Okay, syrup, flour, milk . . . um, we could use oil too. . . ." What do we do now? she mouthed.
Deal with it, Mike mouthed back. Becki tilted her head in confusion, so he sighed and wrote: WE HAVE TO GET RID OF IT. QUIETLY.
Becki glanced uncertainly in the direction of the dual-Josh bedroom. Should we-- she began.
Mike shook his head. WE CAN HANDLE IT, he wrote quickly. ANYWAY, WE COULDN'T BUDGE HIM OUT OF MEDITATION NOW. NOTHING SHORT OF A HUGE DISTURBANCE IN THE FORCE WILL DO THAT.
She nodded and wrote, HOW DO WE GET RID OF IT?
Mike scribbled one last message and thrust the notepad at her before whirling around to disappear into a back room. She read: I HAVE AN IDEA. GOT TO USE THE COMPUTER FOR A FEW MINUTES, THOUGH. KEEP TALKING--COVER ME.
Becki sighed and sat down at the table next to the troublesome little device. "Yeah," she began, "pancakes are such a hassle. . . ."
Mike flicked quickly through a series of files he'd arranged to have on the computers. Reports of criminal activity in and around Paris, and which bars were noted criminal hangouts. He downloaded several likely prospects into the PDA he carried, and signaled for Becki to stop clattering about in the kitchen.
"Ready?" he asked, as she wiped her hands clean on a towel.
"Yep," she replied. "Let's go shopping."
The two teammates exited the apartment and were immediately assailed by the noise of a busy Paris street. Mike switched a bundle of paper tissues from one of his trouser pockets to the one in his coat with the bug, and then pushed them down so they would help mask any signals.
Under his breath, he said, "We should be able to talk. Just be careful what you say."
She nodded curtly, and then asked, "So what market are we headed for?"
"I'm not sure, yet. I thought we'd try some down by the river, and then head out from there."
She looked across at him, and nodded.
"So, in all the fuss about our trip, I never got caught up with you," he continued, affecting an airy, carefree tone. "What's going on with you and your man?"
Becki's face darkened as she thought of Thayer. "Not . . . great," she said. "I haven't seen him since Christmas. That's two Christmases ago, I mean. We kept on missing one another when we all got together for this mission, and now I'm waiting for a reply to an e-mail I sent."
"He's a busy man," Mike commented, casting his eyes across at Becki.
"I know. He's got a lot on his plate, especially after taking over from his uncle and everything, but you'd think he'd call, or e-mail, or something. . . ."
"I wish I could help, Becki. He didn't talk too much to me about you. I think you'd need to talk to Sci about that."
"Except Sci is in New York, or wherever he is right now. . . . It's okay. I expect it'll all sort itself out."
"Yeah, I betcha it does. You two are well suited, and I doubt it's how he's forgotten you or anything."
"If only Zee hadn't distracted me that day. I could have seen him and not been so worried. It really was most unfortunate."
"Zee? What did she want?"
"Oh, help with her French," Becki said with a half smile. "It's so silly, isn't it? A . . . translator who needs to be taught languages."
"Well . . . You do speak good French. You could probably help her better than anyone else," Mike said, choosing his words very carefully.
"But she . . ." Becki began, and stopped. "I'm sorry. I'm whining. But I should have seen him before we left."
"No, that's okay," Mike said, affecting a cool demeanour. Inside, his stomach churned. What he'd seen of Vickie's sub-plan for Paris was in conflict with his own efforts to keep Becki and Thayer together over the last year. He'd expended a great deal of energy subverting the Ladies in Waiting, and now it seemed all his efforts, and his friends' relationship, were to be ruined by one of his jokes.
He looked across at Becki, who was lost in her thoughts. Mike grimaced as his stolen memory of Vickie and Llessur Atner resurfaced. He found himself torn between Becki and Vickie, not to mention Josh and Thayer. What was the right thing to do?
Becki looked across at Mike, who was lost in his thoughts. She paused as a memory of a very different Mike resurfaced. The very first time she had met him, he'd emerged from a bacta tank, still badly injured, but driven on by sheer righteous anger to battle Eugor Atner and his forces. While that side of Mike had quickly disappeared, the look on his face suggested it had returned. She wondered what the right thing to do was.
"Here," Mike said, eventually.
"What about here?" Becki asked, looking around.
"Down this alley. Here's the flour importer I was telling you about."
"Down there?" Becki asked, peering into the dimly lit alley. High buildings on either side arced up and over the alley, all but joining near the top. Even this close to midday, little light was available to see by, and Becki could only faintly make out the dim neon sign halfway along the alley.
"Yes. It's famous. Sort of. Notorious, certainly."
He strode into the alley, almost disappearing as his dark clothes blended into the shadows. Becki hastened after him, eager to keep up, a sudden uneasiness chilling her to the bones.
Mike swaggered past the bouncers outside the bar, slipping them a few notes to ensure his and Becki's entrance. The two stepped inside the bar, pausing at the top of a flight of downward steps for a moment to orient themselves. Mike held out an arm to stop Becki moving past him.
"Follow my lead," he murmured. She squeezed his arm slightly, to show assent, and then they headed down the steps. Becki hung close behind her wingmate, careful not to look too out of place.
It was a vain hope. Mike, for whatever reason, had selected one of the seediest, nastiest bars in Paris. The place was filthy, and the patrons looked like the sort of low-life scum that would give her parents fits if they knew Becki was near them. But Mike seemed very comfortable. Becki wondered at that.
He stopped by a table, at which sat a lone drinker, with several glasses in front of him. Without a word, he hauled the drunk from his chair and tossed him face first to the floor. The drunk barely reacted, and Mike pulled his fallen chair up for Becki to sit down. She did so, wordlessly, looking at the drunk, who was slowly regaining his feet, a look of bewilderment on his face.
Mike turned away, looking for another chair. The drunk slowly focussed on his attacker and pulled a flick knife from his jacket. Becki barely had time to gasp before Mike swung around, chair in hand, and landed a home run swing with the chair-back that sent the drunk, unconscious, to the floor in a crumpled heap. Mike bent to pick up the knife, slipping it into his pocket.
Setting the chair down opposite Becki, he smiled at her, but there was no trace of his usual joviality to be found. Becki shivered slightly as she looked at her friend.
"Drink?" he asked. Getting a slight nod from her, he walked over to the bar, signalling to the barman as he took his place among some truly fearful specimens. Becki swallowed, nervously, as she realised that her friend did not look at all out of place among the thugs.
Of course, that could be a good thing--disguise, blending in--weren't those essential to the Intelligence agents of Terra Group? Yet Mike took so naturally to the role suggested by their environment.
And she certainly didn't. Becki shifted uncomfortably in the chair, trying to watch what was going on in the bar without looking too obvious. She pulled a mirror from her purse--oldest trick in the book, maybe, but then maybe she'd be lucky and it would be the fifth time the locals had fallen for it this month--and then pretended to be rummaging through the bag for the lipstick that wasn't there, all the while using the mirror to watch her own back, since her wing was otherwise occupied.
It didn't take long before the view became alarming: the drunk that Mike had downed remained down, but began to draw a crowd, and the crowd looked quite put out, and their most put-out looks were being shot quite vehemently in the direction of the bar, where Mike was just now turning around with a drink in each hand.
Becki used the mirror then in an attempt to get her wingmate's attention, turning it so that the faint light from the nearest lamp reflected into his eyes. When he glanced her way, she frowned and flicked her eyes toward the thugs now approaching him, clearly bent on vengeance for their fallen comrade. Seeing them, Mike answered her with an enigmatic half-smile and kept walking toward her. And the plaintiffs in this imminent barroom trial, with three particularly nasty denizens of the establishment in the lead, kept walking toward him. Becki returned the mirror to her purse and perched on the edge of her chair, feet planted beneath her, waiting to see which way she'd have to run. One thing was certain--she would not want to stay sitting there, for it looked like Mike's and his opponents' paths were bound to cross just as he reached her table.
At the last moment before collision, the challenge was declared--a string of French curses from the three thugs in the lead--and then Mike made his move, spinning around to land a kick on the jaw of the one in the middle, while splashing the drinks--glasses and all--into the eyes of the two flanking that man. Those two fell back, clutching at their faces, one with a lovely goose egg forming where the glass had bounced off his broad forehead. He who'd been kicked, however, proved quite solidly built; he staggered back from the impact, but he stayed standing. Shaking his head after a moment's half-dazed pause, he came at Mike again.
Mike backed away, up to the table, until his hand fell on Becki's already-vacated chair. Grabbing this, he made to swing it around, reprising its role as weaponry that had been enacted so brilliantly upon the original drunk, but his opponent this time was a bit quicker, perhaps more sober. The man caught the chair in midswing, and a brief tug-of-war ensued. The both of them growled and strained, each trying to pull the unwieldy furniture away from the other; Mike looked about to lose his grip on it--and then suddenly he simply let go. The other man, still tugging, lost his balance and toppled backward to land on his backside, while the chair itself went sailing over his head, causing a cluster of his comrades behind him to duck and scatter as it clattered to the floor where they'd just been standing.
Mike stood hands-on-hips and let out a laugh like a Neverland crow, while the fallen Frenchman struggled back to his feet, shouting all the while.
"Here," said Becki's voice at Mike's ear, and she pressed something into his hand--one of the empty bottles that had been left at their table by its former occupant. "This might help."
"Thanks," he said, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out the bug. This he handed to his wingmate, whispering, "Relocate it." She nodded and backed away. No sooner had she disappeared into the growing crowd than the lead thug returned, bellowing more French curses as he lunged for Mike, who bellowed curses of his own and swung the bottle towards the man's head.
Becki didn't see the impact, nor could she very well hear the results, for the crowd that now pressed closer and closer to Mike and his assailant--though never too close for comfort, lest they too be caught up in the fray--was also growing louder and louder in its cheers for one side or other. She distanced herself from that chaotic center of everyone's attention, slowly making her way back toward the bar. Even there they were watching the fight--two more of the thug's friends had joined in now, but Mike was still holding his own against them--and Becki pretended to do likewise, while watching the clientele out of the corners of her eyes to choose a fitting new home for their little black bug.
At one dark corner of the bar, two men weren't watching the fight. But they seemed even more intent on their own conversation than their neighbors were on Mike's exhibition. She made her way toward them as unobtrusively as she could. It should be a simple matter to plant the bug on the one on the right, just brush past him and do the pickpocket thing, only leaving something in his pocket rather than taking it--
Except that apparently they weren't quite as intent on their conversation as they had seemed. Or (even more likely) she wasn't quite as adept a pickpocket as she should be. Before she could plant the bug, her wrist was caught in a strong grip. She had been looking in the direction of the fight in hopes of remaining inconspicuous, but now she looked around to find both the men watching her, their conversation halted, their expressions half amused and half threatening.
"Eh bien," said her former target smoothly, "qu'avons-nous? Que faîtes-vous?" [4]
"Euh," she stammered, "pardonnez-moi, monsieur, je ne vous ai pas vu--je regardais la bagarre--euh--désolée. . . ." [5]
"Ça ne fait rien," he smiled. Relieved, she smiled in return and turned to go in search of another target, but he caught her wrist again. "Attendez, cherie--peut-être nous pouvons vous acheter quelque chose? Vous avez soif?" [6]
"Euh . . . non, merci," she said, startled at this sudden prolonging of interest in her. Couldn't she just vanish already and get this bug business over with, please? "Faut que je m'en aille, monsieur. . . ." [7]
"Ah, dommage," he said. "Vous êtes pressée. Quel dommage." [8] He stepped closer to her, still with that smile of amusement and threat. She braced herself for fight or flight, but . . .
On second thought, it wasn't so much a smile after all. It was more like a leer. Well--a different sort of threat, then. It took her by surprise, as she wasn't much accustomed to being hit on in bars; though the rareness of her visits to them might have something to do with that. And considering the rest of the female presence in this particular location, well, it was certain at least that she was the cleanest girl there, which would make her far more noticeable--and memorable--than she'd like. For that matter, she realized, her would-be target was a good deal cleaner than most of the bar's rabble, too. Curious, that.
But he was still annoyingly close. His friend, leaning against the bar, watched as if bored while Becki debated which way to run.
Then again, running would leave her with the bug to still deal with. And even Mike surely couldn't hold out much longer; she needed to deal with it quickly. And considering her lack of success at picking this man's pocket, what were the chances she'd do any better with another target?
Can I play the role this situation suggests? she wondered. Not half so well as Mike's playing his--
But necessity's the mother of insanity, after all. Or something of the sort. So she put on her most coquettish smile and let the man step closer, closer, one more step, and then--a hand flat against his chest, she shoved, pushing herself back from him more than she pushed him away, and then it was done. The bug with its sturdy little pin mechanism was anchored firmly now inside the man's front coat pocket.
"Désolée, monsieur," she said, "mais je m'en vais." [9] If she could. She turned to go, but he wasn't much discouraged by the shove; with the leer still in place, he came at her again, reaching for her arm--
But his hand was suddenly knocked aside by the force of a kick, followed by a bottle slamming into the side of his head, and the man fell unconscious.
"Mike!" Becki gasped as her rescuer pulled her away from the bar, back towards the door. "What--aren't you--" she looked over to the center of the fight, which was still going strong; but Mike certainly wasn't there, he was here, dragging her past it.
"It's a good old-fashioned brawl now," he said. "I ducked out and no one even knows it. They're having too good a time knocking each other's heads together to look for mine. Did you--"
"Yeah," she grinned. "Relocation accomplished."
"Perfect," he said. "Then I think it's time we took our leave."
"Right."
"After all," Mike winked at her, "can't waste too much time here. We still have the flour to pick up."
[1] "Oh, yes, thank you, young man."
[2] "Thank you, sir, my pleasure."
[3] "You look a lot like a tourist again."
[4] "Well, what have we here? What are you doing?"
[5] "Um, excuse me, sir, I didn't see you--I was watching the fight--um--sorry .
. ."
[6] "Never mind. Wait, hon--maybe we can buy you something? Are you thirsty?"
[7] "Um . . . no, thank you. I have to go, sir."
[8] "Ah, too bad. You're in a hurry. What a pity."
[9] "Sorry, sir, but I'm going."