Four hours. That's how long it took.
Not to formulate a plan. That part had gone by fast—two minds that knew what they wanted and just enough pride to make it click. But ironing out the fine details? That was where time melted.
Now, seated beside a pair of sunbathing chairs that hadn't seen the sun in weeks, Don and Charles nursed the tail end of their second whiskey glass. The moonlight did most of the lighting now—low, clean, unbothered by urgency.
Charles stretched one leg out and tapped the rim of his glass with a fingernail. The sound barely carried.
"If we both handle our parts properly," he said, "we'll have the instruments we need to begin dismantling Barclay before the week's out."
Don leaned back in the chair beside him, head tilted slightly to catch the curve of the skyline. "That's all we can do," he murmured. "As for our image… that's a gamble. And we don't even get to see the cards."
