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"You're sure this is the right place?"
"I'm sure."
Napoleon Solo shook his head, puzzled. The huge Bel Air mansion reeked of wealth and class. The drive and nearby streets were lined with expensive sports cars: elegant Rolls Royces, numerous Benz and BMW models, several unique custom cars. There were even a few limos, with chauffeur's leaning on the fenders reading papers or chatting with other drivers. Everything here smelled of power and lots and lots of money. How did that equate with a young fashion designer?
"Maybe she's living with some rich sugar-daddy," he speculated.
"Your jealousy is showing, Napoleon," Illya Kuryakin evaluated as they wove through the parked cars to the front door. "Maybe this Diane Foley comes from old money."
Solo shrugged under his not inexpensive suit and self-consciously straightened his elegant, conservative tie. Appearances were seldom what they seemed, he had learned over the years. He needed to be prepared for anything. It was an old comfort -- second nature -- to feel the reassuring presence of his pistol nestled in the shoulder holster tucked under his arm. No matter what den of intrigue they were about to enter, he needed to be on guard, not lulled to laxity by the appearance of social status.
"Don't you remember her at all?" the dark-haired, older Solo asked his friend and on-again/off-again partner of nearly thirty years.
His hand paused near the doorbell as Kuryakin looked at his companion. "I'm the head of an international corporation, Napoleon. I have designers vying for my attention on a daily basis. How can I remember all of them?"
The causal attitude could have nettled the American. Competitive in everything he did, Solo always prided himself on being the best: the best agent, the best lover, the best marksman. Kuryakin, effortlessly it seemed, was always a close second, an equal... sometimes the winner against Solo. The rivalry never got in the way of their friendship, or their working relationship, but it was a subsurface element that perhaps explained their longevity as spies, and Kuryakin's success after retiring from the espionage game.
Adversely, Solo's post-U.N.C.L.E. career had been a disappointing series of failed ventures. Napoleon left U.N.C.L.E. under a cloud of political back-stabbing in 1968, after he and Kuryakin had virtually crushed an international criminal organization called T.H.R.U.S.H. Solo had turned his back on his true vocation, the only profession which could utilize his talents. In '83 he was a faded, international jet-setting gambler, when the new head of U.N.C.L.E., Sir John Raleigh, asked him to return for a special assignment with Kuryakin.
By then Illya was an influential leader of world of fashion, the owner of Vanya's, with offices in London, Paris and New York. The contrast in circumstances could have marked the final destruction of the relationship, which had been in cryogenic storage in the fifteen year gap since the two former partners had seen each other. Kuryakin was rich, powerful and still looked thirty-five. Solo was broke, disillusioned -- looking and feeling his age.
After their reunion assignment was over, each ex-agent admitted they'd missed the excitement of the spy-vs-spy life, the fulfillment of practicing their skills and being needed -- and the comfort of an old friendship. Since then they had remained in close touch, often accepting assignments from their new U.N.C.L.E.
Napoleon sighed with mock gravity. "Illya, you are such a disappointment. You're a wealthy bachelor, surrounded by beautiful women on a daily basis."
"You're just jealous because young nymphs constantly throw themselves at me."
"You're right," he admitted readily. "Makes me nostalgic for the old days."
"Times have changed, Napoleon. You do not go gracefully into the liberated '80's."
"No. I much preferred the free love of the '60's."
Kuryakin rang the doorbell. They waited with the outward calm of men catching a bus. New York overcoats draping their arms, they stood in the warm California sun, hands near their weapons, ready for whatever danger lurked behind these privileged walls.
"I never mix business with pleasure."
"All our years together," Solo shook his head, "and you've learned nothing from me about enjoyment."
Kuryakin ignored the comment and pulled a swatch of material from his pocket. It had brightly colored geometric shapes with black letters and numbers dashed in like equations. He waved the cloth at his friend.
"We are here on business."
Solo studied the fabric. How did a California designer get hold of a secret code used by U.N.C.L.E. and several other agencies around the world? That was their assignment. So much like a case they'd had back in the sixties, with fashion designers in New York and a T.H.R.U.S.H. code. It was easy to believe no time had passed since their prime career years with U.N.C.L.E. Life was cyclical. The proof was that Illya and he were here, together again.
Years of experience, of working hand in glove with this partner, attuned Solo to the subtle signs that Illya was here on assignment, not for afternoon tea with a frock designer. There was a tension around Kuryakin's sharp blue eyes, a tightness in the shoulders. The two of them had lost none of the instincts which preserved their lives countless times while living on the double-edged sword of danger. They were ready for anything.
The door was opened and a wonderland was revealed in an explosion of blaring sound and vibrant images: The 30-ish woman who greeted them was dressed in a pink and black checked skirt, tight sweater and pink bows in her high, ratted hair. The massive entrance-way beyond was decorated with birthday banners, posters of old movies and album covers. I Should Have Known Better was blaring from somewhere within the house.
The men looked at each other. Prepared for almost anything, their expressions agreed.
"Come on in," the pert woman waved to them, "the party's already started." They were a bit slow on the uptake, and she urged them again. "Come on, the floor show's about to start. I have to finish getting ready."
They edged in the door. She slammed it shut and skipped away. A gray-haired, stooped, ancient gentleman in a bib apron came in. "As if you can't hear, the party is in full swing," he said in a clipped British accent as he took their coats. "Refreshments are in there," he gestured to a side room.
The agents stopped on the threshold of a huge living room that opened up onto a massive patio and a backyard that seemed to stretch into forever. A pool, tennis courts and trees edged the lawns filled with people. Almost everyone was dressed in mini-skirts, Nehru jackets, beads, boots, any accessory and fashion extreme representing the sixties.
Various signs proclaimed "Over the Hill" and "21 Years" to someone named Nicky. A young blond man was behind a barricade of speakers, turn-tables and tape decks, surrounded by posters and 45 record covers from Elvis, Beatles, Beach Boys, Herman's Hermits, Jan and Dean, Dave Clarke Five and others. Displayed most prominently, were pictures of a girl's, mini-skirted group called the Delites.
"And I left my love beads at home." Illya dead panned.
"Help me, I'm having a flashback," Solo muttered.
"We are sharing the same nightmare."
"Do you think they did this to impress you?"
Kuryakin shook his head. "No, it's a theme party. Someone turned twenty-one. Twenty one years ago. 1966 theme. But I am impressed. The attention to detail is amazing." He closely studied people's attire as they passed by. "They look new, but... they're perfect. Like we just walked out of headquarters and into 1966!"
"This must be the work of Diane Foley. You said it was a 60's-type style."
"Yes, I see the same hand in this."
"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Let's hope you're as sharp on the rest of the assignment."
There were a few people in conservative attire that matched fashion of any year. Solo and Kuryakin were dressed to blend with any age, and they observed the crowd as a parade of period clothing swept past them. A waiter offered them champagne and hors d'oeuvres -- mini hamburgers, french fries and mini tacos. They mingled through the chattering people, spotting several prominent movie stars, some international corporate figures, as well as philanthropists often noted in society columns around the world. To the side of the patio was a table with what looked like a ballot box. People were pausing there to drop in checks or bills.
Solo put his glasses on to read the print on the box -- a charity. The birthday boy, Nicky, had probably requested donations instead of presents. He refocused when he saw a familiar couple drop several bills into the container. Jonathan Hart, and the ever-lovely Jennifer. He nudged Kuryakin, and nodded toward their friends. Illya, in turn, gestured toward some men near a food table.
"Amos Burke. Do you remember him last year at my benefit?"
"Who could forget the chief of detectives for Beverly Hills... who also happens to be a billionaire?"
"The only kind allowed to be chief of detectives in Beverly Hills."
"Touché."
"Who's the man with him. He looks familiar."
"Fortune 500. Nick Foley of Foley Foods."
"Foley. A relation to our assignment?"
"Must be. Probably a blonde bimbo young wife whom he hopes to buy into the fashion elite."
"My, my, aren't we being cynical, Mr. Vanya."
"Experience, Napoleon. This business is more cut-throat than T.H.R.U.S.H."
They were literally pushed to the side as a mob of people poured onto the porch. One striking woman, dressed in a tight skirt and top, her blonde hair bobbing in a pony tail, swept upon them like a tornado. She seemed in her thirties, but her energy and flawless beauty, not to mention the adolescent hairstyle, lent youth and vivaciousness to her.
"Mr. Kuryakin, oh, I can't believe it! I didn't know Nick invited you! I sent -- oh, never mind, I'll talk to you later. My sisters and I are performing."
I Saw Her Standing There played on the turntable.
She was dragged away by the young woman they had met at the door. They joined three other girls facing the crowd. They called to Alan Hunter, the young blond D.J. Music blared and the women, acting like teenagers, went into a rousing lip-sync of several vintage sixties songs. They ended with a rock version of a birthday song, which they sang while dancing around a young man dressed in a button-down suit reminiscent of the early Beatles.
When they finished, there was thunderous applause. A huge cake, decorated like a peace symbol, was wheeled out by the British butler and a man in a loud Hawaiian shirt who looked like an island native, and wore an apron that said, "Kiss me, I'm Polynesian." Also on the table were cupcakes decorated with peace signs. The crowd sang and young Nicky blew out the twenty-one candles.
California Dreamin' blasted out of the speakers as the D.J. announced there was a special ceremony to take place in the front yard. Everyone milled toward the patio doors. The two former U.N.C.L.E. agents stood to the side to observe the passing throng. The young birthday recipient went over to escort one of the 'Delites,' who happened to be his beautiful mother. On her arm was a familiar man the pair had not expected to see. Robert McCall pinned the agents with a quizzical stare as he picked them out of the crowd. A slight nod acknowledged he would meet with them later.
Illya tilted is head in return.
Just behind McCall came a tall, dark-haired, broad shouldered man in an expensive suit. This man was accompanied by a younger man and woman.
Solo cleared his throat. "Who's that behind McCall? Do I need new glasses, or is that..."
"Brian Devlin," Kuryakin finished. "No, your glasses are fine. It's reality that seems to have tipped into a rabbit hole."
Solo plucked his sleeve and looked toward an expensively dressed, dark-haired, debonair man with an elegant young woman on his arm. "Do you see who I see?
"Is that who I think it is?" Kuryakin asked in a whisper.
"He's signaling us."
"No, he's trying to shoo us away."
"Harry. A few years ago..."
"In Aberdeen," the Russian confirmed. "Wonder what he's doing here."
"I think they called an old-spy convention and forgot to invite us," Solo quipped.
"Not just spies," Illya whispered. He pointed to a light-haired young man talking to a Naval admiral. "That's the Nobel physicist Sam Beckett. Wonder who the military type is?"
"Don't know, but is that Tom Beckett with him too? We haven't seen him for years."
"Since the sixties."
Napoleon looked at his partner with knitted eyebrows. "Seventies actually, if you want to get technical. Tom Beckett. Sam Beckett. Not just an old-spy reunion, I guess."
They trailed behind the crowd as everyone milled through the massive house to the front, where a giant present stood in the driveway. The new 21 year old circled the giant package in amazement. Nicky pull a giant red bow off of a huge blue wrapped shape. The bow and paper folded to the concrete, revealing a red convertible 1966 Mustang. The crowd broke into applause and Nicky hugged his mother, McCall, Nick Foley and all the Delite girls.
"Napoleon, look." Illya nudged his partner. "The cloth seat covers." He tugged his partner by the sleeve and they maneuvered their way next to the classic car.
Solo saw the interior was some kind of custom pattern. He put on his glasses. Kuryakin handed him a piece of cloth. The sample Diane Foley had sent to Vanya's.
"They upholstered the car with the U.N.C.L.E. cryptogram pattern."
"This job was never easy," the Russian sighed.
"What are you two doing here?" a British accented voice behind them hissed. "No! Don't turn around. Your could ruin everything! Pretend you don't know me... no, we've probably been spotted already. Just call me Steele. Remington Steele. But don't feel compelled to acknowledge our... past."
They turned in time to see the elegant and mysterious Brit melt into the crowd. The agents exchanged perplexed looks.
"Curiouser and curiouser," Illya muttered.
"We may have to get score cards soon. I'm losing track of old chums."
"And several others who seem familiar, but I can't quite place."
The agents moved to the side of the wide, massive steps. They surveyed the crowd of people again and in whispered conference placed names with several more prominent businessmen, some former colleagues, and a few younger men that they could not quite pin with names, but knew they had met before.
"Champaign?" said someone beside them.
They turned to Diane Foley. "You looked like you could use a drink," she said as she handed them filled glasses. "Isn't this exciting?" She waved to someone over by the cake. "Oh, they want pictures with Nicky and the family. I'll be right back." She dashed away.
Kuryakin pulled the collar from his neck. "I need to catch my breath every time she comes close."
"Ought to make for an interesting interrogation," Solo quipped. "If we can keep up with her."
They ambled back through the house, trailing the crowds, then on the patio steered away from the masses heading for the cake. Waiters wove through with more champaign, hors d'oeuvres, and platters with peace-symbol cupcakes. Secret Agent Man now blared out of the speakers. Solo snagged refill drinks for them and they stood on the steps observing their quarry as the blonde dynamo posed and hammed for the camera.
"I hope you two have a very good explanation," came a gruff, clipped voice behind them.
"Hello, McCall," Illya greeted before he turned.
"We could ask the same of you," Napoleon said, facing their associate.
"This is my family!" McCall snapped. "And I know you weren't invited!"
"Is that any way to greet old friends?" Solo flung back easily. "Besides, this is practically old home week with you and Harry and Jonathan and Jenn..."
"I'm more interested in your motives," McCall insisted.
"What do you mean your family?" Illya redirected.
With marked impatience, McCall briefly outlined the convoluted and complex relationship between he and the Foley's. During the explanation, Solo's eye caught several other faces he thought were vaguely familiar, but could not place. Three of the men were headed their way. For the life of him he could not remember their names. He had not met them in his professional duties -- or had he?
The trio stopped, their own expressions puzzled.
The taller, dark-haired man studied he and Kuryakin, concluding that they seemed familiar. "Mystery relatives?"
"Long lost U.N.C.L.E.s," McCall wryly supplied.
He re-introduced the agents to Lee Stetson, Skip Carmichael, and Murphy Michaels. It had been twenty years since the last time they'd seen each other. The younger men were grown up, and the U.N.C.L.E. operatives had slightly aged.
The agents were impressed by the young men they'd shared an adventure with in New Mexico. They'd grown confident and mature. The former agents were also pleasantly surprised to learn their former companions were in such interesting careers as astronaut, investigator and secret agent.
"You still haven't said why you're here," McCall returned them to the initial focus of conversation.
"Business, not pleasure," Illya sighed with regret.
"And I never mix business with pleasure," Robert shot back. "Why didn't you contact me before coming here?"
"We're not here to deal with you, Robert," Napoleon corrected. "We had no idea you were even here."
"You want to talk to me?" Lee asked.
"Nooo," Solo slowly shook his head.
Impatiently, McCall snapped, "This is not bloody twenty questions, Napoleon! Who did you come here to see?"
Solo nabbed another drink from a passing waiter and saluted toward the blonde tornado circulating through the party. All eyes in the group targeted the Delite-dressed Diane as she sailed from one conversation to another. Speechless with surprise, the men were silent as she worked her way over to the group.
"Have you met all my sort-of relatives, Mr. Kuryakin? It's all very confusing," she confessed in her usual breathless style. "We're a really diverse extended family."
"Are you adopting anymore Dutch uncles?" Solo asked.
Illya jabbed him with an elbow to the ribs. He suggested to Miss Foley that they seek a private conversation, but she was more than willing to converse with her quasi-relatives -- all of whom, were more than willing to hear the explanation. She started with the story of the cloth sample and design she'd sent to Vanya's. Then she related the surprising arrival of Kuryakin and associate. It was all delivered at warp speed, and when she finished, the gathered gentlemen were somewhat breathless from the monologue. After a moment of silence, when it was clear no one else would say something, she started again.
"So, Mr. Kuryakin, what did you want to see me about?"
By this time, Nick Foley, had joined the gathering. He introduced himself to the agents, already apprised of their presence from his daughter.
"So, Vanya's is interested in Diane's designs."
"Or designs on Diane," Solo whispered aside to his friend. The comment earned him a glare.
"Yes, unique pattern," Kuryakin returned.
"Figures are our business." It earned him another glare. "I couldn't resist," Solo pleaded.
"This is my associate, Mr. Solo. We were wondering where Diane came up with this interesting combination of equations and geometric shapes for her design."
"Amazing thing, it was my nephew, Nicky, who had the figures," Diane explained.
"Wait a minute," Nick interrupted. "Maybe we should call Nicky over. If you're serious about negotiating a business deal..."
"Oh, Dad. Relax," Diane insisted. "Nicky's only in pre-law. We're not doing deals." Generally, to those gathered around her, she explained, "We have more lawyers in the family than we can use."
The creator of Vanya's shook his head, overwhelmed by the relationships of the gathering. Confused, Stetson asked what spies had to do with dresses. McCall explained Kuryakin's brief retirement from U.N.C.L.E. and his establishment of Vanya's. It was too late to stop the process and Stetson waved away the sputtering objections from the U.N.C.L.E. agents.
"Once this family gets a whiff of a mystery, there's no safe place," Lee assured. "Besides, if you're involved with anyone in the clan, it filters through to the rest of us eventually."
Nick Foley saw the potential for a hopeless muddle of cross purposes. He suggested they wait until the party died down, then they could put their full attention into an exchange of information. Kuryakin and Solo readily agreed. Nick and McCall drifted away to find Nicky and Rose. Illya steered Diane away to a quiet corner of the yard before Napoleon could spirit the gorgeous blonde from under his nose. Lee, Murphy and Skip were so pleased to reunite with the spies, they claimed Solo's attention for most of the rest of the party. So much for socializing in the L.A. fast lane.
It was late into the evening when the last of the guests drifted away. It had been a dizzying party for Napoleon, who'd been reunited with several old friends and met some dazzling young actresses. Nicky was anxious to take everyone for a spin in his new car. He wanted to start with a drive to Malibu with McCall, Rose, Scott and Allie, but Nick asked them to wait and introduced his grandson and Rose to the U.N.C.L.E. agents. The group, which by now included Brian Devlin and Nick Corsello, settled into a plush conversation area in the massive living room. Once more, Solo and Kuryakin explained their dual representations of agents and Vanya's executives, and at last arrived at the core reason for the trip to Bel Air.
"These equations are part of an U.N.C.L.E. code used in the 60's. While it is no longer exactly intact, it is a core cryptogram used in several modern codes," Illya started. "And it is still considered ultra-top secret."
"Our superior is agitated over this turn of events," Solo added. "We're here to find out how you got the code, and stop it from being exposed any further." He frowned at Nicky. "I'm afraid that last part is a vain hope now."
Nicky nodded. "Everyone at the party saw it. Several photographers were snapping pictures for the papers and guests..." He shrugged. "Afraid your ultra-top secret isn't very secret any more. Sorry."
Nick Foley cut in. "If this is so important, how did Nicky get a hold of it?"
"One of the burning questions we'd like answered," Illya said, giving a nod to the young birthday man.
"I got it from some of Dad's journals." He looked to his mom and McCall. "Those books from Vietnam. Every once in a while I go through them. This summer, Diane was helping me."
"And we found that old book with the covers peeling off," she put in.
"Yeah, the backing came off the inside cover and these papers with equations were tucked inside."
Lee leaned forward. "Isn't this what you brought to the reunion for Sam to look at?"
Nicky nodded with excitement. It was like a giant puzzle he'd pieced together, and was just now seeing as a big, completed picture for the first time. "Right. He figured them out and was able to piece them together, but we couldn't figure out what any of it meant. He and Al thought it was an old code, but couldn't break it, although Al thought he'd seen something like it in Viet Nam."
"Viet Nam?" Solo asked.
"Sam?" was Illya's question.
"Sam Beckett... one of the Michaels cousins," Diane supplied. "He's a real brain. He knows about all this kind of stuff."
Kuryakin's eyebrows shot up into the blond hair that fell across his forehead. "The same Sam Beckett who's here? Samuel Beckett, the Nobel physicist is your cousin?" The group nodded. "Incredible."
"Sam and Al were both here tonight. They're staying with Skip."
"This brings a whole new meaning to relativity," Napoleon offered. Illya and McCall both pelted him with pillows. "All right, no more bad puns," he promised. Sobering, he asked McCall, "Why didn't you recognize the code?"
"How could I remember some old code of yours from twenty years ago?"
"It was part of the Gamma Project," Solo reminded, his face dark with the memories of failure and disaster. To Brian and McCall, he offered, "Don't you remember the codes U.N.C.L.E. was using then?"
His face drained of color, Devlin shook his head. "I wasn't involved in the U.N.C.L.E. end."
"Good Lord," McCall sighed. He reached over and held Rose's hand and placed a hand on Nicky's shoulder. "Gamma Project was what we were working on when J.J. was killed."
"J.J. Michaels. Of course," Kuryakin identified. His eyes widened with understanding and he gestured to the group. "Another relation." To Rose, he added, "I'm very sorry. He was a good man."
"Thanks," Rose answered with a nod. "He was."
"So J.J. kept a coded message in his journal, hidden in the cover," Napoleon concluded. "When he was killed, his effects were sent back here."
"And we never knew about the message until Nicky found it."
"The pages were folded and colored with age," Nicky continued. "It gave the sheets such a weird, neat look."
"The blending of colors and shapes was irresistible," Diane joined in. "I suggested we make it a new pattern, with kind of a sixties flair. Nicky loved the idea. And being a brain, himself, he thought the numbers were some kind of formula."
"Yeah, like for bubble gum," he admitted with chagrin. "That's when we had Sam look it over. He said it was a code or something, not a nuclear recipe or anything."
"What will you do now?" Lee asked. "The code is no good."
"We'll have to tell Sir Raleigh to wipe out every link to the Gamma code," Solo concluded with a shrug. "Ought to keep all those brains in cryptography busy for weeks. They'll have to cancel the New Year's party."
"I guess you better contact Raleigh on the Network."
"The Network?" Nick asked.
McCall explained. "Organizations like U.N.C.L.E. and others, are now connected by computer all around the world."
Solo scowled at McCall for giving away yet another secret. "Since U.N.C.L.E. designed the system that everyone else has borrowed," he shot McCall an accusing glare, "it's nicknamed Network. It'll link offices, colleges, and other facilities to any other spot on the globe."
"Including New York," Kuryakin reminded.
"Yes," Napoleon agreed. "But there's no reason the report can't wait. We're helping Nicky celebrate his birthday right now."
"We're having a big bash here tomorrow night," Nick told the agents. "Please, be our guests."
"I've already asked Illya," Diane told them as she slipped her arm into his. "And tonight I'm taking him to The Whiskey. He's never been there."
Nick Foley frowned his disapproval.
"Nick, I'm not a little girl anymore," Diane warned.
"Father's never like secret agents," Lee put in. "No matter what their credentials."
For once left out in the cold without a woman on his arm, Solo scowled at his partner. "Have a good time, Mr. I-never-mix-business-with-pleasure Kuryakin."
"We're not mixing business, Napoleon. Diane has refused my offer to join Vanya's."
"What a shame," was the unsympathetic retort.
Illya's Cheshire grin sparkled as he darted a glance at the vivacious Diane. "Yes, it is. That means I'll have to open a branch office here in L.A. To stay close to the competition, of course."
Solo's scowl deepened. "Well, I already know you have plenty of sisters." He glanced at McCall and Rose. "I suppose they're all taken?"
"Yes," Nick snapped quickly.
"Don't you have any female cousins?" he asked the young men.
"Not many," Murphy smiled, obviously enjoying the spy's predicament. "But there's always some great stars at The Whiskey."
"Yeah," Nicky agreed. "And Diane knows 'em all."
Solo's face brightened. "And the girls love red convertibles, my friends."
"Or Rolls convertibles," Nick Corsello added as he held out a hand and asked his father, Brian, to borrow the Corniche.
"Sounds too risky for my blood," McCall said, settling in on the couch. "Why don't you go along, Nick? Never know who you'll see there."
"Me?" the millionaire asked. His expression grew stern. He held out his hand to his grandson. "Nicky, where're the keys to the car?"
"Ah, come on, Grandpa..."
"Nicky... the keys!"
The young man reluctantly handed them over. Nick Foley threw them up and caught them. He glanced at the other bachelors in the group prepared for a night on the town. "Last one to the Mustang pays the bar tab!" he challenged as he darted for the door.
The room emptied immediately. Only a chuckling McCall, a giggling Rose and a stunned Nicky remained behind.
"You don't want to spoil the party, do you? Better get out there, Nicky, or Nick'll drive away with your present!"
Nicky raced out, slamming the door on the laughter in the house. Kuryakin was just leaving with Diane in her Benz. The cousins were in Skip's jeep. Scott, Allie, Corsello and Brian were in the Rolls. Solo and Nick Foley were in the Mustang. Nicky jumped into the driver's seat, which had been left vacant for him. "Thanks, Nick," he said as he gunned the engine to life and squealed out of the driveway.
"I think I'm going to regret this," Nick Foley sighed, but his words were caught on the night wind and no one heard them.