SHATTER! The windows of the Aston Martin crashed inwards erupting into a gale force wind of blackened smoke and immense heat, as debris pelted us through the cratered holes that remained, while we huddled as low as we could in our seats, Jack trying to cover me with his warm body.

  After a long moment, the dust figuratively and literally settled, but the flames refused to die out. I felt rough hands brushing errant shards off my shoulders and looked up to see a weary looking Jack, his hands scraped and cut with slight abrasions from the glass storm. A trickle of blood crept down his brow from an nick above his left eye.

  “Jack!” I whispered loudly, my hands reaching for his face and cupping it tenderly.

  “I'm okay,” he assured me, raising a gentle hand over my own. “You?”

  I nodded profusely, before peering out the window at the smoggy expanse enveloping the area.

  Jack attempted to restart the engines, to the sound of silence pervading the vehicle. “It's done for,” Jack grimaced, slamming his hand down on the dash in frustration. “That's why you never buy Aston Martin.”

  “You didn't buy this Aston Martin,” I reminded him with a slight smile.

  “This is true,” Jack shrugged. “C'mon,” he continued, dusting himself off and kicking open his door, before retrieving our bags from the back.

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  I stepped out and admired the soot covered dents and scrapes that layered the facade of the vehicle, and its jagged shards hanging onto the window like mountain peaks. “What'll you tell Beckman?”

  Jack scratched his head as he adjusted both our bags over his shoulder, before I reached for mine, getting him to relent once he remembered the weaponry saddled in his. “A band of wild vagrants broke in and stole it, trashing the beautiful piece in a psychotic joyride led by a scandalous villain named Tito Braunze.”

  I tilted my head processing in confusion, as my hands naturally fell upon on my hips, while trying desperately not to laugh at the response. “That seems oddly specific.”

  “You wouldn't know the half of it,” Jack laughed.

  “Hmm...I can't tell if you're making this up right now,” I shook my head grinning, as I walked past him and away from the black cloud of smoke.

  “Police will be here soon,” Jack noted, hustling along with me, as he emptied water from a canteen and rubbed the soot from his face, dabbing it with his shirt before handing it over for me to do the same.

  “What should we do then?” I looked up and received a big cheeky grin from him.

  In a matter of moments, we found ourselves back on the same stretch of road, thumbs out.

  “You can't be serious?” I chirped. “There's not some friends you can call with a helicopter to take us?”

  “You wanted to be a spy,” Jack retorted. “This is the covert in covert ops.”

  “With everything going on back there,” I huffed, “no one's going to pick us up looking like this!”

  Suddenly, a beat up old salmon sedan barreled down the road and shot past us.

  “See!” I waved wildly, yet slightly triumphantly at Jack.

  At that, the sedan came to a short stop and reversed with great speed.

  “Oh no,” I teetered back over the line next to Jack as the car stopped aside us and rolled down its window.

  “Well,” the thick Italian accent cut through, “look who it is! Sweet American Girl, Ari...and...” the man looked at Jack, stroking his chin pensively, “and guy.”

  “Guy?” Jack grumbled, annoyed.

  My mouth hung agape. “Stolaro!?”