Dawn broke, streaking the sky with fingers of violet and crimson and the faintest slivers of gold. The arid desert landscape couldn't take anything away from the beauty of a sunrise as seen from the highway and as Jimmy awoke, groggily opening his eyes, he had a few wonderful, drowsy moments of wonder at the magnificence of the morning. Then, from his left, a nasally snore forced him to come to consciousness completely and reality slammed him in the head like a brick.
He was in the back of Yves' car, 327 flopped against his shoulder like a drunken prom date, mouth wide open and drooling on his shirt. Morris Fletcher's car trailed behind them, roughly three car lengths back, swerving a little on the deserted road. The funny thing was, though Jimmy was certain it was Yves' car they inhabited, the Englishwoman was not the one behind the wheel. Instead, the balding blonde head of Jimmy's least favorite man in black lay against the driver's headrest. From the radio, some seventies rock/folk rock song issued forth, a chorus of melodious voices singing in harmony about a hotel in California. Jimmy registered it as being vaguely familiar, but was too muddled to care what it was specifically.
As Jimmy came fully awake, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawned broadly and then cast suspicious eyes to the rearview mirror. Fletcher met his gaze instantly, as though he had some sixth sense about being watched, and smirked.
"Good morning, starshine," Morris sing-songed a little loudly.
With a violent snort, 327 jerked awake and stared at his surroundings in confusion, wincing when he jostled his broken arm in his instant of disorientation. "Hair! What?"
Morris' eyelids slid to half mast in the mirror, making him look even more unctuous. "Have a nice nap, boys?"
Jimmy didn't respond. He didn't have to. 327 summed up his feelings quite neatly with a few muttered oaths and the extension of his middle finger where Morris could see it clearly in the mirror.
Fletcher remained impassive as he clucked his tongue like a disappointed parent. "Tsk. Such manners."
"Hey, screw you," 327 spat, wiping drool from his chin with his sleeve as he did so. "Being a hostage always makes me a little bit cranky."
"Hostage? You're just looking at this situation the wrong way."
327's eyes narrowed and he made a noise that could have been a mocking laugh. "I suppose I'm a guest of the U.S. Government, yeah? Right."
"You could be," Morris replied, flipping the windshield visor down in front of his eyes as the sun crept up over the horizon. "You know, it doesn't have to be difficult. You could cooperate. A little information, a little of one hand washing the other…"
"A little betrayal," Jimmy muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and sulking.
"You are so negative." Fletcher sighed. "I'm trying to make a helpful suggestion over here."
"You're suggesting that we sell out our friends," 327 snapped.
"I'm suggesting you make the best of a bad situation." Morris glanced back over his shoulder at his prisoners. "Tick tock, boys. Within an hour we'll be on my home turf and some very bad men will be pumping you for information in a variety of unpleasant ways--and these guys know every unpleasant way there is."
327 shifted nervously in his seat but Jimmy remained pokerfaced.
"I'm just saying that if you're going to make a deal with the devil," Morris continued, "now would be the time."
"Never going to happen," Jimmy bit out.
"And how 'bout you, cowboy?"
327 turned his attention to the window nearest him, indicating that Fletcher wasn't even worth looking at during conversation. "What do you think, sleaze?"
Morris blew out a breath. "Well, nobody can say I didn't try."