"There's the shack," Michael said, prompting the Boss, who was in the driver's seat, to power down the rocket thrusters at the tail of the black Corvette. He then hit the brakes hard, and the car did a sand-churning, turning screech, ultimately stopping about 30 feet away from the outhouse-sized building.

They were in the middle of the desert.

The Boss pulled out a small radio and extended from it a very long cable. Then, pressing a button on it, he spoke: "Tower. This is number 001 and assistant. We're ready to come down." He sighed, shut the hand radio off, turned the car radio on, and pulled a lever to let his seat way back. "Now we wait."

"It always does take a while, doesn't it?" Michael questioned, smiling unhappily.

"Stupid old machinery," the Boss chuckled in response. "Got to have that clunky junk replaced."

"Stupid work force is more like it," Michael snapped back. "Takes them ten whole minutes to pull one single lever. And they get all the sandwiches they could dream of in the break room in return."

"Not much spirit with those two, I agree. But you must admit we didn't hire them for that." The Boss pulled out a cigar from who-knows-where in his jacket. "Mind?"

"Last time I minded, you almost fired me." Michael was acting very critical and snide today.

"True."

Then they waited. One song played on the station. Then two. Then another before the commercials. Then the commercials. Then another song started. Absolutely nothing was happening.

The Boss threw his cigar out the window and swore. "Those dumb idiots. This isn't right. They should have responded."

"Gosh, I miss the air conditioning." Michael opened three buttons on his jacket and turned off the radio. "Stupid thing. I'm expecting a letter from my ma too. Carl, you foolish buffoon, do something already. Couldn't we maybe have a shade sail here or something?" At this, the Boss started laughing. "Some lemonade, I don't know; put up a 'be back in' sign up just so we know the time frame. Anything?"

"I remember when the Agency wasn't slow like this," the Boss reminisced. "My Boss back in the day would radio down and we'd be in in two minutes. Of course, ever since Carl and Simon got the job, we've had Melee in the control tower to keep them... distracted."

"The worst part is, you can't even complain about it to them." Michael groaned. "Slow in body and mind. And inherently lazy. Triple threat."

"That's why they have the easy job," the Boss remarked. "Staying here instead of traveling around the world hunting. Assassinating. Evading the law. Being vigilantes. Just like us."

"Like me," Michael corrected. "The two years I've been in training, barely a jot of fighting I've seen you do."

"How else am I to get you to take down 13 crooks in a back alley in India?" The Boss started to pull his cigar box out again, then shook his head. "Don't worry, you're doing great. Eventually, you'll be just as good as your father or Strap Preeg. Just takes a while."

"'A while?'" Michael turned in his seat. "Hand-to-hand combat takes forever! That was a rotten trick back in Venezuela by the way; I still haven't forgotten. You had better make that up somehow."

"Don't worry." The Boss put his hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "Next time, all guns are- "

Just then, the radio squawked. "Uh, this is Carl. The gate's been open for, like, 20 minutes. Are you guys still there?"

"CARL!" Michael elegantly swore loudly into the tiny box. "I'm on the verge of heatstroke out here! You couldn't have told us earlier? Couldn't possibly have?"

"Geez, sorry, I guess," Carl returned sarcastically. "You gonna come down or what?"

"We're coming," the Boss said. He chuckled. Michael fumed. The Boss started the Corvette again. "What an idiot. Fantastic idiot."

"That letter from my ma had better be there, or so help me..."

"I doubt even that's going to save him at this point."

The Corvette was slowly lowered into the base, and both men got out. The Boss went to the back and opened it up while Michael ran towards the control tower, shot up the three stair flights, and kicked the door open. Just as expected, there were Simon and Carl, playing on the video game console. Michael pulled out his revolver and shot it six times. The console exploded. Sparks flew. Smoke billowed. Carl opened a window and coughed loudly. Finally, everything cleared up.

"We have your letter, homesick boy." Simon rolled his eyes. "You're welcome."

Down by the car, the Boss was unloading suitcases from the back and handing them to two volunteers, directing them on where they were supposed to go. Sighing, he lifted his head up and saw through glass windows the chewing out Michael was administering. He smiled. That boy was doing just fine at 21. Give him four more years, and he could very well be Strap Preeg's sidekick. Anyone's sidekick, if he could be Preeg's.

He picked up the last case and held it out for someone to grab. He was surprised when he saw his wife's hand, followed by his wife, appear and take it.

"Well?" She was wearing a head-turning red dress with black high heels and a lot of makeup. "Did you kill any bad guys, my hero?"

The Boss's eyebrows raised significantly. "What do you think?"

THE END.