8. - RAFAEL-
eight
- RAFAEL-
M ondays aren’t made for this. They were supposed to be for aimless coffee runs and quiet afternoons where people settled into a groove—not sitting in a parked car with the air conditioning humming efficiently ready for any stakeout. But here we were, doing just that because I needed to know Monica would be safe after today.
She sat in the passenger seat, poised as always. Her attention flickered between the view outside and her tablet, where she was reviewing documents with a focus that made me feel like a distracted teenager in comparison.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said for the third time in as many hours, not looking up from the screen.
“Yes, I do,” I replied, my tone leaving no room for argument.
She sighed, finally setting the tablet aside to face me. “Rafael, the NoxTech little fanboys haven’t shown up in person once. If anything were going to happen, don’t you think it would’ve happened by now?”
“Relaxing gets people killed,” I muttered, scanning the square through the binoculars perched on the dashboard.
Monica gasped softly. “So dramatic.”
I met her look, holding it for a moment that felt like an unspoken whisper. Monica’s shoulders relaxed, her guarded expression softening, as if to say she knew she could trust me. After we shared a smile, I turned back to focus on the people.
There was a man loitering near the café’s outdoor seating area. Tall and broad-shouldered, he leaned against a light post with the kind of smug posture that screamed self-importance. His sunglasses, unnecessary under the overcast sky, perched above a patchy beard that looked like it grew in defiance rather than care. A baseball cap with some half-faded slogan sat low on his forehead, and his arms were crossed over a graphic tee featuring a meme I vaguely recognized as the online emblem of a bad take. Suspicious enough to keep my attention.
“You’re profiling tourists now?” Monica asked, her voice laced with amusement.
I glanced over. “He’s been standing there for fifteen minutes and hasn’t ordered anything. Tourists don’t do that.”
“Maybe,” she offered, leaning back in her seat. I wondered if there was any more to the sentence but instead, she picked up her phone and I watched as she scrolled through a wall of notifications that only deepened her frown.
We silently watched as the man finally moved, blending into the flow of pedestrians with practiced ease.
“Was it this guy?” Monica turned her phone toward me, the screen lighting up with a social media profile that felt more put together than the man in person. But the profile picture of the same patchy beard paired with a username that proudly displayed: TruthCrusader
“Sure looks like,” I said, leaning closer to read the bio: Patriot. Free thinker. Banned but not silenced.
“He’s got a lot of fans himself.” Her tone was light, but the furrow of her brow hadn’t eased. “Check the numbers.”
I followed the suggestion, noting the follower count that somehow teetered between impressive and deeply unsettling. It was not so big that it seemed fake, but enough to be a big fish in someone’s pond.
We fell into silence after that, the kind that was comfortable with each other and charged against the world all at once. Monica returned to her tablet, and I returned to scanning the street, but my thoughts drifted.
This was supposed to be my last assignment with her. The idea was simple: one last stakeout to confirm she was no longer a target, then back to my regular post. But sitting here with her now, I wasn’t so sure I wanted things to go back to normal.
I stole a glance, the way the soft light from the window caught her. She was beautiful, of course, but it was more than that. It was the way she carried herself—the quiet strength, the razor-sharp intellect, the ability to command a room without ever raising her voice.
Before I could express this, a sharp movement in the corner of my eye drew my attention. The same man from earlier had reappeared, now joined by another figure. They stood near the entrance of the café, their body language tense, their heads angled toward the square as if scanning for someone.
“Stay here,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
Monica frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Just checking something out,” I said, already stepping out of the car.
“Rafael, I know my feed wasn’t cleared of harassment,” she said, sigh clear in her voice, “But you don’t have to put yourself at risk.”
"Have to? No," I said with a wink, shutting the car door and crossing the street toward the café.
The two men didn’t notice me at first. They were too focused on their conversation, their voices low and urgent. But as I got closer, one of them looked up, his eyes narrowing as he saw me.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone clipped.
“You lost?” I said casually, slipping my hands into my pockets. “Or just killing time?”
The man’s jaw tightened. “None of your business.”
His friend shifted, reaching for something inside his jacket. I didn’t wait to find out what.
In one quick motion, I stepped forward, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it behind his back. His friend lunged at me, but I ducked, using the first man as a shield as I shoved him into the attacker’s path.
Chaos erupted.
The café’s patrons scattered, tables and chairs clattering to the ground as the men tried to regroup. I landed a solid punch to the first man’s stomach, sending him reeling, but the second managed to pull a knife from his jacket.
“Really?” I said, dodging the first swing. “In broad daylight?”
He didn’t answer, his movements quick and calculated as he advanced. I grabbed a nearby chair, using it to block his next strike before kicking it into his legs. He stumbled, giving me just enough time to disarm him and send the knife skidding across the pavement.
“Rafael!” Monica’s voice cut through the commotion, sharp and commanding.
I turned to see her standing by the car, her expression equal parts furious and concerned.
“Get back inside!” I shouted.
She didn’t move, her eyes darting between me and the two men.
The man with the knife recovered quickly, charging at me with a growl. I sidestepped, grabbing his arm and flipping him onto the ground with a satisfying thud.
The first man, seeing his friend incapacitated, bolted. I debated chasing after him but decided against it. Keeping Monica safe was the priority.
By the time the commotion settled, the square was eerily quiet. The remaining man groaned on the ground, clutching his arm, while the knife lay forgotten a few feet away.
Monica approached cautiously, her heels clicking against the pavement. Her eyes lingered on the knife but didn’t near as she pulled the phone up to her ear. “How did this all happen?”
I straightened, brushing dust off my jacket. “You’re welcome.”
“For turning a quiet stakeout into an action movie?”
I smirked. “I did, didn’t I?”
She shook her head, exasperated, “You’re unbelievable.” But as her shoulders dropped I realized she was relieved too.
Before I could respond, a familiar voice cut in. “Nice work.”
I turned to see Luis leaning casually against a wall, in front of him were two men in dark suits. His arms were crossed, and a grin played on his face, but the presence of his security detail made the air feel heavier.
At least, that’s how it seemed to me. Monica let out a deep sigh as the men skillfully handled the knife and managed the crowd so effectively that she ended up hanging up on whoever she had been trying to call.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“Just passing by,” he said, though the glint in his eye told me otherwise. “Good thing too—you almost looked like you needed backup.”
“I had it handled,” I said, though the words lacked conviction.
Luis greeted Monica with a smile and a quick hug. The shuffle of hurried footsteps and murmured questions signaled the arrival of reporters, cameras already filming. Monica’s shoulders tensed as she glanced at the growing crowd, her jaw tightening. By lunch, I had no doubt headlines would scream about the attack on U.N. advisors. She exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I need a vacation,” she muttered, half to herself.