Grissom popped out the lighter on the Durango and pressed the end of his cigarette onto the heated coil. As the tip lit, the Brit raised the other end to his lips and took a drag, sighing contentedly. Placing the lighter back in the slot, he furrowed his brow as his PDA appeared in his hand, a result of his teleportation abilities.
Flipping open the top, he pulled out his stylus and pulled up a link to one of his hundreds of Internet information stockpiles that he's raided from different intelligence networks and anti-criminal organizations. FBI, CIA, GRU, MI6, KGB... Griss had access to files that some governments had been trying to access for years. He'd sell them to the highest bidder, naturally... but no one really knew that he had them. And that's the way he liked it.
Scribbling the name "Smith, Phil" in the information box, Griss waited a moment, looked around the parking garage nervously, and blew a bit of smoke out of his nose. Steadily drumming the fingers of his left hand on the Durango's steering wheel in a repeating pattern of three beats, Montag cocked an eyebrow as a list of files from the FBI, CIA, and MI6 appeared on his tiny screen.
"Cripes," Grissom moaned, blowing smoke up into his face. "This is gonna take next to forever! Why'd this bloke have to have such a common name?"
Then, an odd file caught his eye. A fairly recent entry compiled by what was once the KGB. "'ullo," Griss said, smiling mischeviously and tapping the file twice with his stylus.
The file that opened up was immediately translated from Russian to English and Grissom skimmed the contents. The title of the file was labelled "SIGMA" followed closely by "Mission #137".
"How many missions 'as this bloke done?" Grissom asked, running his hand over his five o'clock shadow, which made a bit of a grating sound. "He can't be twenty-one... that's fer sure..."
All of a sudden, a rap sounded at the passenger window of the Durango. As Grissom's PDA vanished from his hand, he looked up to see Phil standing at the window, waving for him to roll the window down.
"Whatcha doing, Griss?" Phil asked.
"Oh, nothing..." Griss replied, indicating the cigarette in his mouth. "Y'know... just making sure the lighters in these things work."
"What was with the PDA?" Phil asked.
"Just looking over some building schematics for the construction," Griss answered. "Speaking of which, we'd better get movin' on that, eh, mate?"
