Fenny parked the car in one of the lots marked “quick drop,” which was littered with signs declaring any vehicle parked for more than an hour would be towed at the owner’s expense. Which was pretty much exactly what she wanted; it wasn’t her car, after all.

“What’re you doing?” she asked as Paul opened the glove compartment.

“Protection, remember?” he asked, pulling out one of the handguns.

“Paul, you cannot take a gun into an airport.”

He pouted at the weapon. “But I like having a gun so when the freaky people try to kill us I can wave it menacingly.”

“I’m really not in the mood for a cavity search by airport security,” she grumbled. “Put it back.”

“You’d be surprised how enjoyable the experience can be if you get a gentle enough security guard,” Paul mused, face blank.

Fenny opened her mouth to ask what was probably a very dumb question, the answer to which she was certain she didn’t want, and decided to just move on. “Besides, you and Gina can’t do nasty things to each other if you’re detained by the Homeland Security people.”

With a pout, Paul put the gun back into the glove compartment and with a little wave, stepped out of the car. The sun was just beginning to rise, and Fenny realized just how tired she was. Letting out a yawn, she tripped over a curb she had managed not to notice, and crashed directly into Paul’s back. “Sorry,” she peeped.

“You’re completely hopeless, Fen,” he declared, hiding a smile as the electronic doors opened with a dry squeak. They walked up to the first ticket desk they found, and leaned heavily against the counter as they waited for the man behind the desk to look up from his computer. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry, so Paul flumped Troy down roughly onto the desk. The man jumped back with a startled noise in the back of his throat and looked up accusingly at Paul. “Hi,” Paul perked.

The man, Larry, if his nametag was to be believed, looked to Fenny with a slightly shell-shocked expression. “Ignore him, he’s…there aren’t words. We’re going to need two tickets to as close to anywhere in England as we can get as soon as possible.”

“What happened to LA?” Paul asked as Larry tapped away at his computer.

“That was the plan before I talked you into England. LA’s kinda in the wrong direction.”

“We’ve got a flight leaving in forty minutes to London with a two hour layover in New York,” Larry announced.

“Two hours?” Fenny whined.

“It’s the best I can do for you on such short notice, ma’am.”

“Fine,” she grunted.

“Can I see your passports please?” Larry asked.

Fenny and Paul both looked at each other, startled for a moment, having forgotten the need for passports for international travel. Each reached into their back pocket and pulled out a passport. “Where’d that come from?” Fenny gasped, pointing at Paul’s passport as Larry glanced over it.

“Found it in my bag when I found Troy. You’ve started carrying yours around all the time?”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s always keep your passport, phone and wallet about your person when dealing with kidnappers.”

Larry looked up harshly, but handed back the passports without a word. “How will you be paying?”

“Oh, um, credit card I guess.” Fenny pulled her wallet out of her pocket and handed over a card.

Paul looked sheepishly at her. “I’ll pay you back? Well I’ll pay you half back, since this was your idea to begin with,” he grinned.

“Fine,” Fenny shrugged. At that moment, finances were at the bottom of her list of things to worry about.

“You’ll have to check your bags with customs,” Larry declared, handing over Fenny’s card and two freshly printed tickets.

“Oh, no bags,” Paul declared, “just the mongoose.”

Larry watched nervously as Fenny thanked him and dragged Paul away by the sleeve, the mongoose clutched tightly to his chest.

Gina pulled up in front of Danny’s apartment building in the slightly crunched car which seemed to be just as happy as its occupants to be firmly on the streets of Sydney rather than the icy mountain roads. Gina, Danny and Greg piled out and up to the apartment where Gina and Greg flumped on the sofa. Danny disappeared into his room to change and grab his passport.

“Maybe we could find something of Danny’s that’d fit you,” Gina mused, taking in Greg’s rather rumpled appearance.

“Well we certainly won’t find anything of your short ass husband’s that’ll fit me,” he smirked.

“I happen to like his short arse,” she mused. Her mind wandered to Paul, the ‘property of’ tattoos they’d gotten, his rear in general…and promptly changed the subject. “Maybe we should disguise you.” She cocked her head at Greg and he scowled at her.

“What, are we in some Richard Pryor spy flick and I missed the memo? Why would you disguise me?”

“I dunno. Amy was after you, she could still be after you, and she’ll be looking for a goofy looking guy with glasses and funny hair.”

“Hey,” he pouted.

“We could dress him up like a woman,” Danny perked as he entered the room in fresh clothes, a small bag thrown over his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t be too big a stretch,” Gina smirked.

“Nobody’s dressing me up like anything,” Greg huffed. Danny tossed him a shirt, sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. “Except maybe some mad football fan,” he said, glancing at the logo on the sweatshirt.

“Should fit,” Danny shrugged, “oh, and this is yours too.” He tossed a small, blue book at him: Greg’s passport. “Found it when I found the keys, forgot about it until I took off my pants.”

“Yeah, thanks for the imagery,” Greg mumbled and wandered towards the bathroom to change.

“And do something about your hair while you’re in there,” Gina teased.

The wind was cold against Brad’s face, and he squinted his eyes closed and hunched his shoulders, partially to avoid the wind, partially because he was more than convinced he was going to die. Beven had taken to whizzing through quiet, murky back streets, taking corners entirely too fast, and ignoring the fact that the engine sounded like it would drop out of…wherever the engine is kept in a motorbike. This, coupled with his tights and the knowledge that two psychotic women were racing to kill him and his friends, seemed reason enough for Brad to curl up around Ritza’s bag, which she’d thrown into his lap as she’d slid on the bike behind Beven, and try to pretend none of it was actually happening.

That had probably been a bad move, as he’d obviously tempted fate. Over the roar/cough of the engine, Brad heard a very distinctive “Shit” from Beven as he glanced at a side mirror. Brad turned back in his little sidecar and instantly wished he hadn’t – they were being followed by a black car that was suddenly out of view as Beven whizzed around a corner so fast that the wheels to the sidecar actually left the ground, then crashed back down violently. “What the hell are you trying to do, get me killed?” Brad shrieked at Beven.

“No,” Ritza yelled back just as a gunshot sounded. “They are!”

Brad whimpered and hunkered back down into his sidecar trying not to cry.

“Fen.”

“No.”

“Yes, unfortunately you are Fenny,” Paul sighed. “I know this for a fact because if you were my wife, we’d have done it in the toilet by now, and your glasses have been digging into my shoulder for the last hour and a half, and the only other speccy person I’d be flying to England to help rescue Brad with would be Greg, who would have probably drooled on me a lot more than you have. So, using the process of elimination, you’ve gotta be Fenny.”

Squinting her eyes closed in protest, Fenny gingerly moved away from Paul and settled her glasses more firmly on her face. Evidently she’d managed to fall asleep on the plane after all, not surprising given the fact she hadn’t gotten any sleep in what felt like decades of driving, panicking and arguing. Hastily wiping her mouth and rubbing one eye under he glasses, she peered out the window, surprised to see that they were actually on the ground and taxiing towards a vaguely familiar airport. “We’re here?”

“Nothing gets past you, does it Fenella?”

The plane slowed to a stop and Fenny stretched. A steward announced that they were allowed to de-board the plane, so Paul jumped up and rescued Troy from the overhead compartment. He’d rather wanted to keep Troy with him during the flight, as the mongoose was rapidly becoming a calming force in his life. But about five minutes after taking off and bidding farewell to Ohio, a young boy in the next aisle had grown fascinated with Troy, asking to pet him, which Paul had reluctantly agreed to. The child’s mother slapped his hand away and immediately called over a stewardess to demand something be done about the “disease-ridden monster.” Fenny had clamped her hand over Paul’s mouth before he could say or do something too foolish, and agreed to let the steward put the mongoose away. Paul had taken to sulking like a child and drawing evil things in the in-flight magazine, including the mother’s head on the body of a pig on a spit, until a passing steward had caught him and confiscated the magazine. Shortly thereafter Fenny had fallen asleep and therefore whatever terrible things Paul had done had not been her fault, but she could only assume that since he hadn’t been thrown off the plane, he’d managed to behave himself rather well.

They made it to the flight lounge and immediately dropped into the first two chairs they found. “Two hours,” Paul declared.

“Maybe I should call Ritza, find out where she is exactly, let her know we’re coming?”

“You call, I’ll get food.”

“No, you call, I’ll get food. I’ve got the money.”

“Just call, Fen. But give me money first.”

“I don’t want to call.”

“Well why not?” Paul huffed, beginning to get exasperated.

“I dunno,” she squeaked.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s because of Brad, isn’t it? Well if we’re going to rescue him, you’re going to have to talk to him eventually. Besides, he might be unconscious and mutilated.”

“Paul!”

“Just call.”

Fenny frowned and handed over her wallet. “Get me a sandwich or something.”

“Watch Troy, they frown on him in cafeterias.” He placed the mongoose on the arm of her chair. Troy stared at her.

“It worries me that you might know this from experience.” Paul wandered off and Fenny frowned at her phone.

Ritza let fire a volley of bullets behind them, and from the sound of things, or from what Brad could hear with his arms clamped firmly over his head, she was trying to shoot out their tires. It worried Brad that he had been in situations similar to this often enough that he could actually discern the difference between the sound of bullets ricocheting off pavement and the sound of bullets missing people’s heads. Most startling, however, was that the bullets shot by the owners of the black car sounded like they were missing people’s heads.

“Fuck!” Beven yelped and Brad instinctively looked around. A motorcycle swerved out of a side street a few blocks ahead of them headed for them, gun drawn, helmet visor down so the rider looked like some sort of demented storm trooper. They fired, and, oddly enough, one of the windows of the black car shattered. Brad was suddenly very confused as to what was going on, thinking maybe the guy on the motorcycle was on their side and he hadn’t been informed, until he began shooting at Brad in earnest, when it became clear that people on Triumph motorcycles were clearly insane and just wanted to kill everything they ran across.

Beven pulled a gun out with one hand and shot a few rounds at the cyclist while Ritza continued her assault. “Beven, what’re you doing?” Brad yelped. “Would you stop shooting and just drive?!” One of Triumph man’s bullets ricocheted off one of the rims. “No, changed my mind, shoot, shoot!”

“Would you shut up and cower!” Beven yelped, letting off a shot that sounded sickeningly like it had imbedded itself somewhere in Triumph man’s body, but Brad couldn’t tell because Beven took another sharp corner.

Something vibrated in Brad’s lap and he was vaguely annoyed that he may have actually managed to wet himself for the second time in two days. But he glanced down and realized Ritza’s phone was ringing. At a loss for what to do, he blindly stuck his hand into the bag and pulled out the phone and answered.

“This had better be fucking good!” he shrieked.

“Um…” Fenny’s heart sank. That wasn’t the reaction she’d wanted. She knew he wouldn’t want to talk to her, but that was a bit harsh. She was reaching for the ‘end’ button so she could hang up quickly and get Paul to call when she heard gunshots. “Brad?” she gasped. “What’s going on?”

“Fen? I’m, uh, are you alright?”

“Fine, yeah, for Christ’s sake, what’s going on, are you okay?”

“Well, no, Beven, Ritz and I are on a rickety old motorbike and we’ve got a black car and a motorcycle trying to kill us.”

“Fucking bastard!” she heard Beven yelp.

“Wha—”

“I take that back,” Brad breathed, “we now have just the black car, motorcycle guy just, um, drove into a wall.”

“Where are you?”

“Where? I don’t actually know, some little town not far from Nottingham, but far enough from Norwich to confuse the locals.”

“What?”

“Shit!”

“Brad!”

“Beven you asshole, would you warn me next time you do that?”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s driving like a madman down these stupid little alleys and he’s gonna tip the bike and I’m going to wet my tights and that’s not how I want to die.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way sweet stuff,” she heard Beven’s voice over the roar of the motor and ping of bullets, “but shut the fuck up!”

Fenny was getting more confused by the second, and decided to let the tights reference go. “Look, we’re all heading to England, when you find out where you are, call me and call Gina, alright?”

“Yeah, look Fen, I—” A bullet ricocheted off the sidecar, grazed past his thumb and knocked the phone out of Brad’s hand where it bounced off the pavement and promptly absorbed one of the randomly flying bullets. He let out a girlish scream in equal parts surprise, fear and pain as he doubled over grasping his thumb with the other hand.

“Brad?” Fenny gasped. “Brad!” The line went dead and Fenny realized everyone in the immediate area was staring at her. She glanced around a moment, blind with panic, and leapt up to find Paul, Troy held tightly in one hand.

“Remind me again why we’re going to England?” Greg grumbled as they waited in line at the airport ticket desk.

“Because Paul and Fenny are going,” Gina declared, “and Beven, Ritza and Brad are already there, we can all pool our resources. Besides, there are people in this country that want us dead, and the people who are best at shooting the bad guys are in England.”

“And because Gina needs to get laid,” Danny shrugged.

“Right,” Greg nodded. “And what are we going to do when we get there?”

“Find the others and beat the bad guys.”

“And let Gina and Paul get laid.”

“Thank you for that, Daniel,” Gina grumbled, cursing the thoughts of Paul and shower gel that flitted briefly through her mind.

“Gina?”

“What now?” she sighed.

“Do you realize how many credit cards I’ve had to cancel because of these kidnapper people? I think Visa is getting really pissed with me, but it’s not—”

“Is this your subtle method of informing me that I’m gonna have to pay for your ticket?”

“Of course not,” Greg said, sounding wounded at the very thought of being accused. “Well, yes. But only because I wasn’t rescued with my wallet. It’s not like I wanted to be brutalized, surrounded by ugly gangster chicks with more testosterone in their system than a pro wrestler on horse steroids and have my wallet stolen.”

“The things I do for you,” she groaned with a shake of her head. The woman behind the counter gestured for her to come forward, and Gina hobbled to the desk. After reluctantly agreeing to take three of the last four seats on the next plane out, regardless of the fact that could not sit together, they were each handed a ticket to London with a quick stop in Singapore, and headed through the airport to their terminal.

Gina stopped outside the restrooms closest to the flight lounge. “You guys go ahead, I’ll meet you there, yeah?”

“Why, what’s wrong?” Greg asked. With a look on her face that said ‘Why do I put up with these stupid, stupid men,’ she pointed to the women’s toilets. “Oh. Right.” Greg stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his annoyingly tight jeans. Damn Danny and his physique.

“You don’t want us to wait for you or anything?” Danny asked, looking a bit nervous.

“I’m a big girl you know,” she pointed out.

“We’ll go peruse the gift shop then,” Greg perked.

“You do that,” Gina agreed and limped awkwardly into the restroom while the boys perused the duty free. She genuinely hoped they managed to resist the temptation to buy things they didn’t need.

As she was doing her pants back up, leaning against a wall of the stall to take the weight off her badly damaged ankle, the bathroom door opened and she heard the distinct clip-clop of designer heels. Which stopped directly outside Gina’s cubicle, just standing there.

“Yeah, hi, someone’s in here,” Gina announced.

“I know,” the owner of the red stilettos announced. Scowling and ready to hurl a tirade of abuse at this woman who was clearly bent on invading people’s personal space while they urinated, Gina opened the door and was quite relieved she’d managed to evacuate her bladder already. Her eyes focused on the gun that was leveled directly between her eyes. “Not this again,” she groaned.