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The salt spray stung Alex's face as the ""Rusty Wanderer"" coughed its way down the coastal highway. He glanced at Jake, hunched over the map, a furrow in his brow that spoke of impending doom - or, more accurately, impending poverty. Their summer road trip, a beacon of freedom fuelled by youthful exuberance and a shared love for adventure, was sputtering faster than their vintage VW van. Gas was swallowing their meager savings whole, and the promise of endless horizons was beginning to shrink to the size of their rapidly dwindling snack stash. ""Another twenty miles and we're officially broke,"" Jake announced, his voice a mixture of resignation and the thrill of the unknown. ""Unless we find a gas station that accepts IOUs written on the back of expired concert tickets."" Their luck changed, though not in any way they could have predicted. As the Wanderer limped into the sleepy coastal town of Port Blossom, a town that smelled of brine and forgotten dreams, a hand-painted sign flapping precariously outside the docks caught their eye: ""Day Labor Needed - Good Pay, Cash."" The allure of cold, hard cash, enough to fuel their wanderlust for another week, was too tempting to resist. Reluctantly, they agreed to sign on as deckhands for a local fishing boat, ""The Sea Siren."" Little did they know, their carefree summer was about to plunge into the icy depths of international espionage.

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