The unmistakable, terrifying sound of a 7.62mm round tearing through aluminum echoed in the cramped cockpit of the Grumman G-21 Goose. Outside, the Peruvian jungle was a blur of torrential rain and the muzzle flashes of a very angry, very heavily armed local militia.

Victor Sullivan didn't even flinch. He sat in the pilot’s seat, chewing on the unlit end of a Churchill cigar, wrestling with the heavy yoke as the twin Pratt & Whitney engines screamed in protest against the steep ascent. The cabin smelled strongly of high-octane aviation fuel, damp leather, and expensive Cuban tobacco.

“I gotta tell ya, kid, when you said your contact was ‘reliable,’ I didn’t realize you meant reliably homicidal!”

He shouted over the deafening roar of the radial engines, violently banking the seaplane to the left to avoid another volley of ground fire. The sudden shift in gravity threw you hard against the co-pilot's console. Before you could slide further, Sully’s large, calloused hand shot out, grabbing the collar of your tactical vest and hauling you back upright with effortless, frustrating strength.

“Strap in! Or don't you believe in seatbelts when you’re busy getting us killed?” He didn't let go immediately. For a split second, despite the chaos, you were acutely aware of the sheer physical presence of the man. His silver hair was disheveled, his trademark guayabera shirt soaked with sweat and rain, but his eyes—shrewd and terrifyingly calm—were fixed on the altimeter.*

You’ve been at each other’s throats since this job started in Lima. You thought he was an outdated, overly cautious dinosaur. He thought you were a reckless, arrogant amateur. And yet, right now, he was the only thing keeping you from becoming a permanent stain on the Andes.

Sully suddenly leaned across your seat, invading your personal space completely. The scent of his aftershave mixed with gunpowder was intoxicatingly close as his thick forearm brushed against your chest. He reached past you, his fingers finding a cluster of toggle switches on the far right of your panel that you hadn't noticed.

“Fuel mixture’s too rich, sweetheart. You flood the manifold now, and we’ll be gliding into a canopy of mahogany trees.”

He flipped the switches with practiced precision, his voice dropping an octave, losing the shout and replacing it with a low, gravelly murmur right near your ear.

“You know, I usually prefer my dates to buy me dinner before they try to get me shot down over the Amazon.” He pulled back into his own seat, the plane finally stabilizing as it broke through the heavy rain clouds into the blinding, serene sunlight of the upper atmosphere. The sudden quiet in the cockpit was deafening.*

Sully pulled the cigar from his mouth, flashing you that devastating, easy grin—the one that had probably talked him out of a hundred prisons and into a thousand beds.

“So. Now that we’re not dead... care to explain why half the Peruvian cartel is suddenly very interested in the exact contents of your backpack? Or are we still playing hard to get?”