Chapter 254: The Bar

“Different? Sam, tell me, how is it any different?!”

Her purse packed with essentials, Carly stormed out of the townhouse, with Sam chasing right behind her down the stone steps.

“Do you think back then I wanted a medal and a government check, or did I just want my brother to come home alive?”

“I can’t watch you walk that same line, Sam.”

“I know, I understand…” Sam nodded earnestly, but his ground held firm. “I know you’re worried about my neck, but I swear to you, I can handle this. I can wrap it up and make things normal again…”

Vroooom—

A metallic growl cut through the evening air as an open silver roadster and an aggressive crimson Ferrari slid off the main avenue, cruising slowly toward the curb.

Carly turned, eyeing the two high-performance machines that were pulling up smoothly with nobody behind the wheel. Her jaw tightened. “I finally see it, Sam.”

“You crave the rush. You can’t live without the grand adventure.”

“No, Carly. That’s not it. I just want to feel like I matter to someone.”

“You matter to me, Sam!” Carly looked back at him, tears welling in her eyes. “You matter to me more than anyone else on this earth!”

“I don’t want to lose you. We both know where this road leads, and your promises are just sweet words to keep me quiet.”

“Sam, walk away with me. Leave this right now. Please?”

A heavy silence hung over the driveway. For a long, painful moment, Sam stood rooted to the pavement before slowly shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Carly. I can’t do that. I…”

SLAM.

The solid thud of a car door cut him off.

Seeing that her words couldn’t reach him, Carly climbed straight into the Mercedes SLS Dylan had provided, threw a cold parting glare, and said, “Good luck, Sam.”

The engine roared to life, tires gripping the asphalt as she sped off into the night.

Perhaps that was human nature. At the end of the day, people often found themselves longing for a quiet, steady peace. Carly was no different, just as Mikaela had reached that crossroads years before.

“Easy, kid. Don’t let it weigh you down.”

Simmons stepped up beside Sam, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder after taking in the entire argument from the doorway.

“A man who walks the rough road has to make peace with the quiet. You aren’t in the wrong, she isn’t in the wrong, and heaven knows we aren’t either.”

Simmons tilted his head toward the receding taillights. “By the way, having a townhouse like this was surprising enough, but how does she afford a ride like that?”

Sam looked back, his expression blank and drained. “Her employer gave it to her.”

“Ah. Filthy rich corporate bastards.”

Simmons flashed a knowing grin. “I used to despise those people. But these days…”

Half an hour later, cruising down the highway in an open custom Maybach, Simmons threw his head back against the wind and shouted at the skyline:

“These days, now that I’ve joined the club, I love every single second of it!”

“The luxury tier, kid! You can’t even picture it!”

Catching his breath, Simmons settled back into the plush leather seating, tossing Sam an arrogant smirk. “Mark my words, kid: only German engineering truly understands iron.”

“Taking a team out to track down two retired cosmonauts… nothing sets the mood quite like a custom ride, does it?”

“Sure, whatever you say…” Sam mumbled under his breath, glancing back over his shoulder.

Trailing behind the Maybach were three pursuit machines: Bumblebee in the center, flanked by the silver roadster and the crimson Ferrari that had pulled up earlier.

Bumblebee had already cleared their IDs over the local link. The red machine was Dino, one of the newer Autobot operatives deployed planet-side.

The small convoy wound through the city grid, eventually pulling up a block away from a low-profile dive bar tucked deep within an industrial slum.

A string of high-end sports cars rolling down a back alley was an open invitation for prying eyes, so Simmons signaled the stop well short, rolled down his window, and raised a pair of tactical field glasses.

“Never forget my background, kid. And keep an eye on my assistant.”

“Chuck here spent years with the signals division, handling digital counter-ops. Tracking priority assets through back alleys is what he does before breakfast.”

Simmons adjusted the focus ring, muttering to himself, “The real question is: why did these two stay underground all these cycles? The Decepticons weren’t even on the radar back then.”

“Target acquisition, sir!” Chuck called out, tapping the tablet interface. “Right on the curb, Mr. Simmons.”

“Trained like a hound, Chuck!”

Simmons adjusted the lenses. Sure enough, two stocky men with sharp cheekbones, narrow noses, and flushed faces stepped out into the alleyway, looking distinctly out of place among the local crowd.

In an immigrant melting pot, faces of every heritage blended in, yet these two carried the rigid bearing of old-school military brass.

Each man had an arm wrapped around an attractive young woman, casually steering them toward the bar’s reinforced back entrance.

Having reviewed the files Brains pulled earlier, Simmons matched the faces instantly. “That’s our mark!”

He lowered the lenses, taking a heavy sidearm from Chuck and sliding it beneath his jacket.

“Remember, kid: eastern bloc operatives don’t waste time on idle chatter. When you want their ear, you speak their native tongue.”

“A sidearm?”

“Naturally,” Simmons slid on his shades with total swagger. “Is there a more universal language on Earth than a chambered round?”

“Let’s move, kid.”

Stepping onto the pavement, the three men made straight for the service door.

Yet getting inside an underground establishment in this neighborhood wasn’t a walk in the park. The back entry was a reinforced security hatch guarded from the inside.

“Zdravstvuyte,” Simmons barked at the view slit, testing out a greeting.

“That means goodbye,” a gravelly voice replied through the slit in flat English, followed by the metallic click of the hatch sliding shut.

“Chuck!” Simmons glared at his aide in pure frustration. “Didn’t you swear that meant good evening?!”

Chuck frantically flipped through a pocket phrasebook. “These Cyrillic characters look like auxiliary keys on a mainframe console that never get touched! I was trying to—”

“Worthless, Chuck!”

Simmons reached into his breast pocket, drew a crisp roll of high-denomination bills, and rapped his knuckles against the iron plating.

This time, the conversation went much smoother. The slit slid open, a pair of cold eyes glanced down at the cash, and thick fingers snatched the bills through the gap before the heavy lock disengaged.

“Welcome inside, gentlemen.”

“See that? The universal clearance pass,” Simmons grinned, pushing his way through the threshold.

The interior was surprisingly subdued. Low ambient lighting, a mellow bassline humming through hidden speakers, and a scattering of patrons murmuring over drinks in corner booths.

Save for the long mahogany counter lined with foreign spirits, one might have mistaken the lounge for an upscale private club.

Taking in the room with a swift scan, Simmons zeroed in on his quarry.

The two retired cosmonauts were deep in their cups, trading quiet laughs with the women beside them. When a shadow fell over their table, the bearded one scowled up in irritation.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Seymour Simmons. Formerly with advanced foreign contact oversight, handling non-terrestrial liaison duties. Retired now, naturally.”

Simmons pulled up a chair and dropped into it with practiced ease, leaning across the table as he dropped his voice:

“I know your flight history, gentle-men of the cos-mo-naut corp.”

The word cosmonaut hit the table like an electric charge.

The drunken haze vanished from their eyes, replaced by hard, lethal focus.

Beside them, the two glamorous companions went completely still, their hands sliding beneath their coats in silent coordination.

In the dim light, Simmons either missed the movement or simply chose to ignore it.

A split second later, the cold muzzle of a handgun pressed firmly against the side of his temple, wiping the smug grin right off his face.

“Don’t move.”

The two women had drawn sidearms in a flash, one pinning Simmons against the booth while the other leveled her weapon straight at Sam’s chest.

One second they were runway models nursing cocktails; the next, they were stone-cold contract shooters.

“Weapons down! Back off right now!”

Chuck had his own hardware out just as fast, dual-wielding handguns aimed straight at the two cosmonauts, roaring over the music: “Drop the iron!”

He knew enough field craft to know you aim at the handler, not the guard dog.

The few patrons scattered around the booths scrambled out of their seats, ducking low and bolting for the exits. Nobody came out for a quiet drink only to end up full of stray lead.

“Well, well. Two on two, four barrels in the air. Classic tactical standoff.”

Staring down the barrel, Simmons’s shock lasted only a heartbeat before his old field calm settled back in.

After surviving an alien war in the dunes of Egypt, staring down a standard service pistol felt like routine work.

Only Sam looked rattled, his hands half-raised as he searched for words.

“Nobody needs to get reckless here,” Simmons said smoothly, using a fingertip to nudge the muzzle slightly away from his ear. “Ma’am, you have exceptional aim, truly striking. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Now, as for you two: you had seats booked for lunar orbit, and then the whole board got wiped clean overnight. I just want to know why.”

“Let’s lower the temperature. Put the iron away and take a breath.”

“We talk like old friends comparing field notes. We have actual space monsters walking the streets; there’s no reason for us to turn each other into target practice…”

The two cosmonauts exchanged a swift, silent glance, their chins tilting in a barely perceptible nod.

“Stand down,” the bearded one ordered. “Holster the weapons.”

At his command, the tension drained from the table, averting a messy shootout before it could start.

Only then did the bartender slowly peek out from behind the counter, while the bald bouncer reappeared near the corridor.

“I am Yevgeny. This is Andric,” the lead cosmonaut said, keeping his voice low as he stood up from the leather booth.

“Follow us. This room has too many ears.”

He turned and led the way toward a back office.

Sam leaned toward Simmons, whispering under his breath, “Are we really following them back there?”

“Naturally, kid,” Simmons adjusted his sunglasses and straightened the collar of his faded flight jacket.

“Chuck, let’s roll!”

30+ chapters are available now and daily updates!