He says, "My name is James Reynolds. And honestly, I just need to get home. I could give a damn less about your Russian spy adventure. Everybody, including America, hates America. Plus, the Cold War has been over for nearly a quarter century, wouldn't making the Russians the bad guys just be another in a list of trope filled adventures? I've already faced death by virus once, I died of a MRSA infection on an operating table. If I really have to die again, I'd rather go out with a bang than risk my life for something that, more likely than not, has no antidote, and probably has other versions of itself being made around the globe. Just get me to St. Petersburg, and as long as you aren't too heavy of a presence on social media, you will never see me again." He sits back in the car, hoping the ride will be short, he would rather not be stuck with this woman longer than necessary.