2. Mac
2
Mac
Leave no trace—a motto beloved by snipers and national park enthusiasts alike.
According to the residents file that the oily property manager, Ed Something, gave me, the tenant of 3B is Eleanor Wilson. I blow out a breath as I lift my knuckles against the thick wood, preparing to lay on the charm. The old bags really love the southern accent, and I’ve never met a woman named Eleanor under the age of 75.
So, even though it’s 10 AM on a Tuesday, I fully expect the apartment to be occupied. Old usually means retired, bored, opinionated, and generally a pain in my ass for this kind of thing.
As if to prove my point, a head pops out from the apartment next door. The woman is so myopic that her glasses are half an inch thick, and the halo of gray curls is too perfect not to be a wig. She looks me up and down, taking in the gray jumpsuit. “You here about them bugs?” she asks in a thick Cajun accent.
“Yes, Ma’am.” I push the fake frames I’m wearing up my nose to draw more attention to them.
She startles at the twang in my voice, but it’s quickly replaced by irritation. “I don’t got nowhere to go, me.”
“We’re awful sorry for the short notice, Ma’am. Between you and me, this is one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. You’ve never seen a nest this size. Another couple’a days and we would’ve had to condemn.”
Her eyes widen behind the lenses, though still appearing comically small in her face. “No,” she cries as she looks around nervously and scratches her arm, like she can feel the nonexistent bugs. “You serious? Hmm. I s’pose I can figure somethin’ out. You don’t start sprayin’ nothin’ ‘til I leave, you. Uh?”
I nod, an answer to the creative noise that represents a question. “I’m getting everyone out first.”
She shuffles back into her apartment and the door slams.
I’m not concerned. I’ve got hours until the real action starts, and this is the last floor I have to clear out. Alice Parker isn’t the first resident to put up something of a fight, but no one really wants to stick around and see the kind of bugs that would make an exterminator nervous. They just want to grumble and make it clear they’re not happy about being put out last minute like this.
I knock and after a moment, I hear something crash inside followed by, “I’m coming! I’m coming!”
I almost snort as there’s another loud crash, a yelp of pain and a loud curse, and then the door swings open in front of me.
Well, shit. Eleanor Wilson is not 75.
She is lush. And just my fucking type.
She’s holding her left elbow in her right hand, and it pushes her breasts together in a way that makes my mouth go dry. She’s wearing some kind of sleeping outfit, and I can see all of her long, thick legs in those shorts. Her wavy dark hair is mussed and her bangs are flipped up in the middle. She’s pretty tall for a woman, standing just under my chin in lovely, arched bare feet, and she’s so fucking soft. Even her face has a rounded jaw, full lips, heavy-lidded blue eyes…
Those eyes scan me with a blank lack of recognition, traveling to my face, then down my body. I see pink appear on her cheeks as she subtly moves her arms to cover more of her unmistakable breasts, and I find myself grinning a little at her reaction.
I’m used to people staring, normally finding it more irritating than anything else, since being noticed is the very last thing I need in my line of work. It’s helpful when it comes time to blow off some steam by getting someone under me, but a damn nuisance when I’m trying to be functional instead of just decorative.
But I’m tall, stacked and have a face more than a few mamas could love, so I do understand it. And I know I’ve got a memorable face, so I wear the huge, thick-framed glasses so people will remember that instead of other, identifiable details.
However, irritation is not what I’m feeling under my skin as this little piece gives me the thorough once-over. Her perusal stops at my nametag.
“Mac?” Understanding, then embarrassment twists across her face. “You’re the exterminator. Oh God, I’m so sorry. I got in late and I forgot to set my alarm and I don’t wake up until 10 most days… I swear I’ll be out of your hair in two minutes.”
Trying to hide my grin at her apology-fueled explanation, I glance over her shoulder. There’s an overturned chair next to a duffel bag in the center of the floor, which has clothes haphazardly sticking out. She’s got the curtains drawn, so it’s dark—curtains are good—and I can see that the windows take up most of the opposite wall. That’s also good.
“That’s all right, Miss… Wilson,” I say, pretending to read her name off my clipboard. I lay on the southern accent thick, and I tell myself it’s so the story about me stays consistent. But really, it’s so I can see those eyes perk up with interest. These northerners love a southern transplant. “We are sorry for the inconvenience. You have somewhere to go, I hope?”
“Oh, yeah, a friend and I are going to stay at the Ritz Carlton.”
I cock my head, slow to catch the joke when she laughs, but I grin back anyway because that damn smile is infectious. I try not to watch how the laughter makes her chest shake under the flimsy tank top.
“God, I wish. No, we’re staying at Super Dreams,” she admits with a shrug.
Now, I frown. That place is… seedy. I don’t like the idea of her in one of those dirty rooms surrounded by drug deals, pay for the night encounters and possible homicide. I know for a fact that the night manager keeps track of which rooms have the young women staying alone. “One of your downstairs neighbors mentioned they’re staying at the SeaBreeze Inn, maybe they have a vacancy?”
“It’s too far. I don’t have a car; I need to be able to walk to work.” With a little sigh, she shakes her head.
She turns and I almost groan. The view from the back is… better. Those shorts are made of something so thin that I can see everything. Every. Damn. Thing. She’s not wearing panties. I move my clipboard to cover the front of my jumpsuit, watching as her hips swing and jiggle as she hurries .
I want to follow her inside so badly, but I can’t. It’s not what an exterminator would do. An exterminator would ensure she was leaving on schedule and go back to his truck to get his supplies. But I don’t want to leave. I want more time to interact with her. So, I lean against the door jamb, filling the space with my shoulders and height. I watch her whirling-dervish routine, grabbing items from the floor and sofa and tossing them haphazardly into the open duffel.
“I really will just be a minute. I’m so sorry, I know you’re just trying to do your job.”
“Stop apologizing. I’m the one kicking you out of your apartment; I appreciate the hustle. What brought you back so late, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She throws a quick look my way, flushes again, and grabs something out of a drawer to throw into her bag. “Work. I don’t finish at the restaurant until 10:30 or 11 most nights.”
“Which restaurant? I’m new in town and I’d take a recommendation.” Maybe I’ll make a chance-meeting happen when this is all over.
“Bistro Jacques. It sounds French, until you realize that the guy who owns it is named Jack and he’s about as South Jersey as they get.” Her head whips back around to me, eyes wide like she realizes she’s said something wrong—talking me out of going instead of talking me into it. “The food is really good, though. You should totally check it out.”
“Maybe I will.”
She disappears into the bathroom and I hear the fan come on as she flicks on the light. Seconds later, she’s back out, arms full of towels and bottles and a pink floral travel bag.
“Um, so all my stuff is okay, right? The chemicals or whatever won’t hurt anything?”
“The gas will be long gone by the time you get back. As long as you don’t leave anything alive, you’re good to go.”
She pauses, cocking her head at me. “What about a sourdough starter? That’s alive.”
I balk. “Uh… What is that, exactly?”
Her eyes widen with excitement to explain it to me. “It’s like my pet. It’s wild yeast that I use to make bread. Never mind, that paper said any food in the fridge would be okay,” she brushes it off, heads into the kitchen, grabs a jar off the counter and shoves it into the back of the refrigerator.
Then, she throws on her coat over her pajamas, shoves her feet into some ugly rubber clogs, and grabs the duffel. Realization hits me, a second too late. I shift to the side as she approaches to block her exit. “Now, hold on, Eleanor. I can’t let you leave like that. That’s not what you wear to the restaurant, is it?” And I’ll be damned if any of those lowlifes out there get an eyeful of those legs.
I know she hears the heated interest in my voice, because that blush starts creeping down her cheeks towards her ears. Her head drops, and she bites her lip and wraps the coat around herself tighter.
“How about if I start in,” I pretend to check my watch, when really, I’m just picturing taking ahold of that lip in my own teeth, “10 minutes. Get dressed before you go.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I should go start on my paperwork, anyway. It was nice meeting you, Eleanor.”
“Ellie,” she says, somewhat shakily. “People call me Ellie.”
“It’s a beautiful name, people should spend the extra time to say the whole thing,” I flirt.
She bites her lip. “Thanks. It was nice to meet you too, Mac,” she says, smiling and glancing again at the name tag.
It’s a nickname, and the tag was Wes’s idea of a joke, but now I can’t stop thinking about her saying my name over and over—screaming it, whimpering it, gagging on it.
Fuck. I’ve got a job to do.
At least now I know where I’m setting up. And it’s not just because her view is perfect—all these top units on this side have a sightline to both the bar across the street and the warehouse on the outskirts of town—but it has the added benefit of being hers. And probably not smelling like mothballs.
I shake it off as I move to another door. The rest of the top floor is empty, so I make my way back down the stairwell at the end of the hall and stop to check on the few other stragglers. When I’m done, I stride out to the Harry’s Bugs-B-Gon van parked on the street in front of the dilapidated brick building. The B is in the shape of an ant. It’s little touches like that that give us credibility.
The inside of the van is another world entirely, full of monitors built into an impressive display, control panels connected with zip-tied wires, black cases of weapons, cameras, and a pop-out tabletop with a man hunched over his laptop. Wesley barely turns his head when I slide in through the front, still in setup mode. That picture never gets old, all six-ish feet of him hunched over the tiny screen, balancing on the small, round stool seat.
“Found your vantage point, then?” he asks in his deep baritone. His British accent curls around his r’s and lifts his vowels. We’re way past me ribbing him for it, and I’m just glad he has one of those posh accents and not the ones where it sounds like they’re trying to talk around a mouthful of mud. At least I can understand him.
“Yup.”
He nods and types something into his laptop. I reach around him for my duffel and the case next to it. I freeze as I see the familiar, stupid ant silhouette on the side of my nondescript black case. “Did you… did you put a fucking sticker on my rifle?”
The edges of Wes’s lips curl up and he doesn’t look away from his screen. “It sells the story. Anyone who sees that will assume it’s just full of bug bombs.”
I glare at him and try to lift the corner of it with my thumbnail. Fortunately for Wes, it comes up easily and in one piece. “They would have assumed that from the uniform, clipboard and van. Don’t touch my guns,” I growl.
He just grins. The smarmy fuck.
“You don’t want to start this shit with me, Short Round. I know where you keep your physical backups.”
Calling Wesley “Short Round” is almost laughably inaccurate—he’s more like a tattooed Indiana Jones on steroids—but I do like to take every opportunity to remind him that I’ve got a couple inches on him.
“You don’t know the combination to the safe,” he replies, unfazed.
“I’ll scratch Dimitri’s throwing knives and tell him it was you. ”
I have him, then. His eyes flick to me and he swallows. He opens his mouth, presumably to stick his foot back in it, but I cut him off. “Don’t. Touch. My. Guns.”
He holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture and turns it into a stretch, leaning back over the chair. “Think we’ll get what we need tonight?” he asks as I unzip the case and check the pieces inside for signs of tampering.
“Probably, if they’re as eager for the sale as it sounds. Dimitri’s setting up the perimeter at the warehouse?”
“He’s on his way,” Wes nods, reaching across the counter into a bag of jerky. I recognize the label instantly and reach forward to swipe it out of his hands.
“I’m never leaving my stuff in the van with you again,” I grumble.
His laughter follows me out, abruptly ending as I slam the van door shut. I’m hoping for another sign of Eleanor as I look down the street and step into the mailroom/entryway, but my watch tells me that her 10 minutes were up 20 minutes ago and there’s no doubt in my mind that blushing, overly-apologetic Eleanor is a rule-following submissive at heart.
Which is good. I’m not a fan of brats.
I make my way back up the stairwell, pausing at each floor to verify that everyone is gone. Only lonely Mrs. Parker from 3A is still inside, descending the stairs so carefully with her carpet bag that she actually appears to be moving backwards. I sigh, set down my gear, and escort her out. Then I lock the doors behind her.
I hate dealing with tenants. It always sucks when we can’t find an empty building for cover and have to go to plan B. But plan B isn’t hard to execute, all it takes is a few well-placed cockroaches and an intercepted phone call to the exterminator. I’ve got some empty bug bombs I’ll set up on my way out to sell it.
One of the reasons being an exterminator makes a great cover is that it’s one of the few things that will clear out a whole building for more than a day. We need everyone gone because if I’m somehow spotted, or the building is compromised during the mission, no one will be around to see anything. It keeps people safe.
The other reason is because the building manager has to give you copies of all the keys to all the units.
I set my cases down outside the door of 3B, put the key into the lock and push inside. The first thing I notice is that she’s picked up the mess. She did a lot in 10 minutes—turned her bed into a couch, put away the rest of the clothes hanging out of drawers, and cleared away the dishes that had been sitting out. The place is clean, if bursting with so much stuff I’m not sure she’s ever heard of the concept of minimalism.
My chest puffs out as I inhale deeply. There’s a hint of that old-building smell under layers of other scents, like cleaning products and candle wax. But it also smells like some kind of flowers and a distinctly feminine musk that I know is what she’d smell like if I woke up next to her. It’s sharp and sweet and bitter and subtle.
I set down my bags by the window and draw the curtains closed. They’re the thick, light-blocking kind and dark. No one will see the end of my gun poking through in the dark unless they know exactly where to look, and they look hard. They certainly won’t be able to see my silhouette behind it. It’s perfect.
I grab ahold of one of the chairs at the pathetic little dining table and start to drag it over to the window to get set up, then stop with a frown. It creaks and wiggles in my hand. No fucking way this thing is going to hold me. I eye the other chair at the table, but it doesn’t look much better. So, I drag the futon over and perch on the arm.
Some time later, I’ve got the scope and tripod assembled, all my gear has been checked and the line of communication with my team is open. This has officially become a waiting game. I stand, stretch and take a look around. My first stop is the TV remote. I click it on and get nothing but static, no matter which buttons I press. Fucking perfect.
A few hours later, the sun has set at the ripe hour of 4 PM like it does here in the winter, and I’m numb with boredom and sick of my phone screen. So, I decide to snoop.
I grab a framed photo of two little kids off the table behind where the couch was. It’s recent, judging from the Disney characters they picked for their Halloween costumes. I eye the terrible drawings taped to the opposite wall. Are those her kids ?
Nah. It’s a studio. What would you do with two kids in a studio? There’d be more signs of them—toys, small clothes, that sort of thing.
The other pictures are of an elderly couple at the beach, some college-aged girls with their arms around each other, and some candids of the same people. One particularly old one is of two little girls—one with thick, straight bangs, smiling with her eyes closed and missing a front tooth and one, slightly taller, holding a black cat hostage in her inexpert grip.
Other than the one with two little girls—her bangs are almost the same—Eleanor isn’t in any of the pictures and I frown.
I move into the cramped kitchen next, opening cabinets and seeing more appliances than I was aware existed. Her fridge is fairly empty except for a few containers of what must be leftovers, and I’m sorely tempted to steal one of those IPAs, but I refrain. Top cabinets are pretty ordinary with glasses, plates and… hello…
More spices than I’ve ever seen in my entire life fill one cupboard to bursting. It doesn’t even close all the way, something I’d initially assumed was just yet another quirk of this shithole studio apartment.
I pick up a few I recognize—garlic, onion, salt—but my eyes widen at some. The fuck is gochugaru? I open it, give a heavy sniff, and cap it quickly enough that I don’t get snot inside the bottle when I sneeze.
Okay, I’m really starting to like this chick. She likes it spicy.
My stomach growls, reminding me it’s been approximately three hours since I last ate. I’m always hungry, side effect of a high metabolism needing 4k calories a day to maintain muscle mass at my size. My duffel is half beef jerky and packaged salty snacks, but now… I’m kind of curious about those leftovers. She did say she works at a restaurant. I assumed she meant as a waitress, but maybe I’m wrong.
I grab one, pull the lid off and a delicate—if fishy—smell wafts out. Oh shit, is that salmon?
This is a bad idea, I tell myself as I toss the container in the microwave. Her fridge is empty, she’ll notice that the leftovers are gone. But as the pasta heats up and the scent fills the air, my mouth waters and I silence the part of my brain that reminds me of the motto beloved by snipers and national park enthusiasts alike: leave no trace .
I audibly moan at the first bite. Wes and Dimitri aren’t exactly putting time in to meal prep and I barely know my way around a microwave. Sure, we appreciate a good meal, but the food-is-fuel approach has gotten us all this far. Dimitri even did his little OCD calculations to figure out optimum nutritional requirements for us all, and has the same groceries delivered every week. Eggs. Chicken. Broccoli. Lettuce.
I’m so sick of fucking salad and grilled chicken breast.
Movement across the street on my monitor catches my eye and I shove another forkful in my mouth as I cross the room in two strides. “Status?” I say into the earpiece.
“I’am here,” comes Dimitri’s deep Russian voice over the mic. “I have a corner booth on the south east side, close to the kitchen.”
“I’ve got a visual,” I say, pressing a few buttons and smoothing out the image so I can see the Russian more clearly through the grimy windows of The Lucky Goat. The guy is fucking huge, his legs barely fold under the table, and looks like he’s having a terrible time. I almost laugh as the first girl approaches in spite of his mean mug. “Good luck with blondie.”
He grunts, annoyed, and I see him wave her off and take a swig of his beer.
As I finish the salmon pasta, I reflect on the job. We’ve only been here about a month and that was all it took to figure out the exact pickup and drop points for the weapons shipments. If all goes well, we’ll get everything we need tonight for the hit tomorrow. I’m not on deck tonight, I’m a contingency for the man on the ground.
Dimitri’s meeting with Rossi’s guys goes well, and the drop is set for tomorrow night.
He often poses as a buyer for this kind of thing, his size makes him believable as a thug and his accent is so thick that people make their own assumptions about who he works for. Wes arranges the meetup, Big D shows up and no one asks too many questions. When pressed, he told me once that he just rattles off the names of his extended family back home. Nine times out of ten, the other guys just pretend to know who he’s talking about to save face. That last time, Dimitri’s knives come out to play .
There really is no doubt in my mind that Jacob Rossi is our guy, even if we’ve only dealt with his underlings and he’s kept his face out of it so far. Public record alone told us he’s a real wife-beating, tax-evading, steal-from-the-poor piece of shit. Couldn’t cut it in New York, had to bring his brand of corruption here to be a big fish in a small pond.
But we don’t cut corners. We’d all agreed, even before the first job, that we wouldn’t skip the important first step that we call “Beyond a Reasonable Doubt.” Plus, anything we learn while we watch just helps us formulate our airtight plan for taking them out.
Recon is 90% of the battle. You can’t just kill a Kingpin. They’ve got seconds, thirds, fourths in command. You take out the top guy, chances are one of them is going to step in and pick up right where the boss left off. Or, they’ll make it real inconvenient for us by trying to avenge their leader or some shit. So, if the goal is stopping the smuggling operation, we need to take them all out. The research is what makes the hit—which only ever really takes a few minutes, in the end—go smoothly.
It’ll be a long two days, but it’ll be worth it. I stand and stretch, then bring the empty container over to the sink. At least I have space to move around—I’d go insane stuck in that cramped van like Wes. Though, he’ll head home tonight. Dimitri, too. It’s easier for me to just stay put. The more trips in and out, the higher the risk I’m seen.
I’m sorely tempted to pull out this couch and lay down where she does. Use her pillow. Roll in her sheets.
But I don’t. Because I’ve got a shred of impulse control left, apparently. I don’t wear scented deodorant or aftershave as a rule, but I don’t have to smell like Old Spice to leave something behind that she’d perceive. Then there’s the hair, fibers, etc. I’m careful. Fastidious, usually.
So, why do I want her to know I was here?
That same instinct telling me to eat her leftovers tells me to do it—sleep in her spot, leave part of myself behind so this place is marked, claimed, owned. Like it belongs to me and, by extension, so does she.