Like everything else in his life - jogging was done at a fixed hour, whatever the time zone. But unlike everything else - jogging was done twice a day. Once, an hour before the rest of the town awakened. And another time after the sun had gone down. Today that didn't apply. England had given way and it had snowed heavily for the last few days. And thus, there was never any sun. Where exactly he has, he hadn't a clue. He thought he heard the estate agent say Tyneside earlier when he had flogged him the rented house; but he couldn't have been sure. Not that it mattered. It was England, and right there and then, he was experiencing the "bloody English weather" that everyone bitched and moaned about. And for good reason.

If there was one thing Quietus had to have when he looked around for a house to rent in whatever country or continent he was in, it was a front garden that was open for all to see. There he would do his stretches before and after the jog - his subtle but very deliberate way of showing the rest of the town that he was bigger, better and brighter. And as he stretched his calf muscle in the snow-covered grass, a quick glance upwards caught sight of a car slowly driving by. It came to a halt about twenty yards down from the house, but its pace and colour bothered him more than he would have liked. He'd seen the very same car just hours earlier driving by at the same speed, as if out on a casual drive. But there was something more to it than that. If there were other houses in the vicinity, then fair enough, but there were not, unless Quietus had become blind since he last checked.

He finished his stretching before he was really finished, and pulled his shades back down over his eyes. Purposefully but more cautiously than usual, he exited the front garden via the old creaking gate in need of oiling and walked by in the direction where the car was parked. The passenger's seat window was down the full way - odd, since it was cooler than Christmas had been. Holding his breath, Quietus walked by, risking a quick glance in the car's direction. Two men sat there, both in the front seat, both casually dressed, and both looking pissed off with the fact that they were where they were. It was decided that they were probably lost, and Quietus walked on, speeding up into his usual light jog, determined to put the car and the men out of his head. Jogging further down the footpath, he took a sharp left, glancing again back at the car, which had not moved.

He was making a mountain out of a molehill, he decided. It was probably nothing. Hell, it probably wasn't even the same car.

******

Nate glanced at Rubio, who glanced down the sidewalk, and then back at Nate. Neither knew each other's last name as they sat in the cheap '93 Toyota that they would never have dared drive for pleasure. But this wasn't pleasure; it was work. Nate knew Rubio wasn't Rubio's name -- or else naming a white boy Rubio came into his stoned parent's heads. Rubio knew that Nate probably wasn't Nate's name, seeing as how Rubio wasn't his. But neither cared to bring up the issue. What was the point?

A nod from Rubio and the two were out of the car in an instant, Nate carrying a suitcase while Rubio glanced around every now and then, trying to look both intimidating and inconspicuous. They were in the house less than a minute later - Irwin hadn't even put a lock on the front door. Dumb bastard, Nate thought. Rubio didn't think; he just acted. In less than ten minutes the phone in the house rented in the name of Ross Irwin II was tapped professionally. Only the slightest bug was on the bottom end of it, and would only be found after some thorough scrutiny. They both knew what Quietus had eaten for breakfast, so it was no worry. He'd never check the phone. In fact, he more than likely would never use the damn thing. But they wouldn't take that chance. They were being paid good money; it was pointless losing out on a continued payment of that.

All they needed now was a slip-up of any kind from him, and they could retire by forty. All sixteen of their fingers were crossed as they left the house.

******

Back in the car, they swapped seats so that Nate could make a phone call without the hassle of looking out for any bored cops. Rubio wasn't the type of guy who liked talking that much anyway. Even for two hundred an hour he'd do his utmost not to make unnecessary chit-chat with people.

"It's ringing," Nate mumbled.

Rubio nodded, but said nothing, rolling down his window and letting the crisp air blow in his face to keep him awake. The damn car didn't even have air conditioning.

"Yes, Mrs. Grantham, we found him. Uh huh. Yeah, England, indeed. He's involved in a wrestling federation called the WWA. WWA, yes." Nate rolled his eyes while listening to the woman on the other end.

"Between you and me, after Monday evening they'll have been in three continents for their last three events, so yeah, I'd imagine all of their employees are on a handsome number," biting his lip, Nate looked at Rubio, who kept his eyes on the road.

"Will do, and sorry for ringing at such a late hour. Thank you."

Hanging up, Nate tossed his cell-phone onto the back seat, craning his neck and moving it back and forth for a few moments. He looked at Rubio again, who shot a quick glare back at his co-worker.

"She wants to be posted on a daily basis until further notice. We work our own hours, still at two hundred an hour. Scares the hell out of me really. If she doesn't have this money when we're finished with this and she's made her big re-union with the big guy, what the hell do we do?"

Rubio shrugged. Nate sighed. Neither wanted to think of that scenario. They'd worked too hard, not to mention the fact that what they were doing wasn't the most legal of things to have ever been undertaken. Forget about not getting paid; if they were caught, they'd be staring at a couple of ugly divorces and probable indictments. That was unthinkable. And they couldn't let that happen.

They wouldn't let that happen.