10. Mac
10
Mac
I like how literally he takes the phrase chill out.
Oh, sweet Eleanor. You’ve done it, now.
I make it clear that I’m watching her while she’s at home, and I show her how I can see in. She could close her curtains. Could shut me out.
Instead, she communicates with me through them.
I ask her to tell me what she wants. She could tell me to back off. She could tell me to leave her alone, or to stop watching her. It would be rough to hear, but I would honor her wishes.
Instead, she asks me questions about who I am and what I do.
It’s time to step up my game. She liked the flowers; I saw her face light up through the window as she arranged them in that plastic cup. My girl clearly enjoys being wooed, maybe even likes feeling chased. I can do romance. Flowers and candy and shit aren’t usually my speed—too slow, too indirect—but I’m willing to spend some time courting her. It seems like a good way to offset being really fucking creepy.
I grin at that, because it feels almost like we’ve got an inside joke now.
She leaves her apartment after a shower and I assume from her phone activity that she’s going to the movies. I resist the urge to follow her into that dark theater where she’ll probably be the only person. Getting that close to her isn’t safe for her. Not yet, with Rossi’s guys still actively looking for us.
Wes found Dimitri’s picture circulating in the hitman-for-hire part of the web yesterday. He got it down within a couple minutes, but plenty of people in those circles know us and it’s honestly a tossup whether they’d work with us or against us. Even with the gentleman’s agreement among hitmen to not shit where you eat, having someone sell your info can often be worse than if they’d just taken the job. Good thing our real identities are so buried.
I check my watch. She’ll be at the movies for a few hours, so I’m going to take this opportunity to regroup. It’s time to report in for my actual job and take care of some personal stuff.
I climb into the nondescript rental car—dark blue Toyota Corolla, small for me, but just old enough to evade notice—and navigate the roads that have gotten slippery as the daily highs have started hovering around 28℉. The city gets worse as I drive, with more and more condemned row-homes and potholes, until suddenly the landscape opens up. Businesses become only one story and have parking lots. Trees line the sides of the roads. Large chain superstores become the tallest things around. The abrupt change from poorest-part-of-town to suburbs is almost jarring.
A few more minutes, and I’m turning onto roads that have names like Wisteria Drive and Normandy Lane. Houses space further apart, yards widen, fences go up. I keep driving. Soon, the houses disappear altogether behind long curving driveways flanked by young trees and walls of evergreen hedges for privacy. Our rental is the last house at the top of a cul-de-sac.
I punch my code into the keypad on the pillar and press my thumb to the print scanner Wes installed. The gate slowly swings outwards towards me. It’s part of a 12’ wrought iron fence that encircles the whole property, of which the mega-mansion sits smack dab in the middle.
That thing is a monstrosity of stone, glass and wood–four floors with an elevator, ten bedrooms, 16 bathrooms, full gym with steam bath/sauna and hot tub, mini movie theater with a projector and recliners, chef’s kitchen, sun room full of plants, two-story library with a grand piano, game room… Whoever built it gave themselves no reason to ever leave.
I like a big house, but I’d never even think to do all this with my money. And I’ll admit that it’s well designed, but loudly decorated. The people who live here clearly like to surround themselves with things that remind them of just how much money they have. I think I remember Wes saying they’re “wintering” in the Caymans .
I set down my bag at the base of one of the sets of stairs that flanks the foyer. I never got the two staircases thing—is one for going up and one for going down?
I head for the kitchen because I’m starved. Wes is sitting at the glass table against the wall of windows with his laptop and an energy drink. He doesn’t look up when I enter the room, just continues moving his fingers across the keys almost faster than I can track. “Hey,” he greets distractedly.
“Hey, Wes,” I say, going to the fridge. It’s cavernous, but far from empty. The only trouble is, almost everything in here needs to be cooked to be edible and I don’t have that kind of patience. I peruse the shelves and pull out someone’s leftovers. “This yours?”
He doesn’t answer, so I peel back the lid and give it a sniff and it makes me wish I had any other option. But I don’t, so I eat the soggy broccoli and unseasoned chicken cold, just to fill the void. Then I move to the coffee machine so I can wash it down.
“What are you doing here?”
I don’t need to turn around to know exactly whose angry, Russian voice that is. But I do, because I’m not afraid of his ire. “I needed a workout and a change of clothes.”
I also need a cup of coffee from this ridiculous Italian machine. I’d knocked it, then I’d tried it. And even though Wes had to translate and then print instructions for us, I don’t even care. Hotel coffee tastes like dishwater and this thing makes real espresso.
Dimitri’s frown hardly ever wavers, but it deepens now as he eyes the mug in my hand. The Bear was his code name when I first met him, and it’s damn fitting. His size alone would be intimidating enough—topping out at about 6’8” in boots, bulky muscles, long limbs—but add the scar that curls back from his forehead and through his short buzzed black hair, and the icy blue of his eyes that mirrors the coldness in the expression he always wears… he’s one hell of a war machine.
But he’s not infallible. He crosses his arms over his barrel chest, bringing my attention to the bullet wound near his shoulder—the gauze is gone, so it must be healing well.
“No, you need to fix this situation and find out where they are moving the guns. ”
“Relax,” I say, bringing up a map on my phone. I send the pin to our secure group chat, then repocket it. “That’s the new place. They moved it quickly.”
The new storage location is a literal storage unit. It’s past where I can see from my hotel room, on the other side of the city, so I’ve been away from my room with a view more than I like. But I did my due diligence and surveilled long enough to confirm that it’s definitely where they moved it all.
“And it’s not going to stay there very long,” Wes adds. He jerks his head to the side, cracking his neck and giving us a flash of the ink below his neckline, then pushes his laptop forward and drains the rest of the can next to him. “He got nervous, sold the whole thing for half.”
“Half?” Dimitri repeats, nonplussed.
Wes’s eyes cut to the left, thinking. “57% of the original asking price.”
I whistle. Both at the human calculator and his calculations. “He got really nervous. One buyer?”
Wes nods, then pushes away from the table to make his way to the fridge. He grabs another energy drink.
“Do we know when is pickup?” Dimitri asks. His grammar always slips when he’s deep in problem-solving mode.
“Not yet. I’ve got my spiders on it, so we should know when they set up the details.”
I smirk. Wesley’s spiders. Spiders. On the web. Internet folk that he trades with in expertise and secrets. He scoffed when I told him he should call them spy-ders, since they’re basically sending him intel acquired through dubious means. He said adding a second layer to a pun is overkill.
“Who’s the lucky buyer that got the deal of the century?”
Wes shrugs. “Haven’t pulled to the end of that thread yet; I’ll let you know when I get through the chain of encryptions and dummy accounts.”
Dimitri nods, then turns to me. “James, stay on the new location. I want to know who goes in and out, when, what kind of security measures, any movements—“
“The usual,” I nod. Normally it chafes at me a little when he acts like he’s our commander. But he’s injured, his cover is blown, and he’s clearly antsy about not being out there. Plus, there’s a kind of unspoken agreement between us that Big D calls the shots when he’s the one sticking his neck out there.
He sighs, a pained look crossing his face. “I will assist Wesley in monitoring the audio feeds.”
“Cheer up, mate!” Wes says cheerily, slapping Dimitri on his good shoulder as he passes by him to settle back down in front of his laptop. “Just think of all the things we’ll get to hear people do when they think they’re alone.”
“It is so boring. All they do is talk to themselves and pass gas,” Dimitri grimaces, not even a hint of a smile in spite of the fact that—as we all know—farts are funny. He glances back at me. “You are managing alone?”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ve got a room at the Ritz,” I say, using her joke.
Wes snorts.
“And what about the girl?”
I tense. “What girl.” It comes out as more of a warning than a question.
Wes’s eyebrows shoot up, but Dimitri just forges on right past it. “The one you allowed to compromise our mission, obviously. Has that loose end been tied?”
“I’ve got it under control.”
Dimitri slams both palms onto the counter and growls, “That had better not mean what I think it means. Are you saying she is still alive?!”
“What was I supposed to do? Shoot her?”
“As you have done many times in the past? Yes.”
I take a sip of my coffee to appear offhand, but inside I’m fuming. No one will be touching a single hair on her head. “She’s not going to be a problem. Believe me.”
A stream of angry Russian pours out of Dimitri’s mouth and Wes and I exchange a look. He understands more than I do, but we both understand more than Dimitri thinks. I try not to let on, but it gets hard not to smile at the insult that literally translates to “goat testicles.” Russians are so creative.
He switches to English so seamlessly, I almost don’t catch it at first. “You try my patience, James.”
“How about a little of that trust you’re so big on? I say I’ve got it, and I do. Stop worrying, babushka .”
He sighs through his nose, glares at me one more time, and crosses the room to exit the kitchen through the double doors out into the cold. Steam rolls off him in coiling waves as he walks around the in-ground pool and disappears into the vast yard.
“I like how literally he takes the phrase chill out,” I smirk. Wes makes a noise of agreement, but something about it has me looking over. He’s staring. “What?”
“You know I can see when you activate one of my devices, right?” Wes says, those intelligent eyes gleaming with knowing amusement and curiosity.
“Fuck off,” I say without any heat.
“Who’d you bug?”
I try not to glower at him. Dimitri doesn’t care so much about details until he feels like he has to get involved—he’s Mr. Big Picture—but that’s not Wes. Everything is a puzzle to him.
And he’s too close to the truth—he knows which building I was in, which side I was facing, and that I always go to the top if I can. From there it’s an easy process of elimination to know which apartment. He’ll know everything there is to know about her in about an hour. But maybe I can convince him that my reasons are something other than the sordid truth. If it’s just the job, maybe he won’t dig.
“Well, I did let her go. I had to be sure she wouldn’t talk.”
He blinks. “You sure that’s all it is?”
“Gotta say, I’m getting real fuckin’ tired of being second guessed. Just let me do my thing, yeah?”
He lifts his palms. “Fine. Just making sure you know what you’re doing.”
Too smart for his own damn good. I huff a significantly less dramatic breath than Dimitri did before his exit, and start for the gym. “Come down if you feel like it. I’m going to lift heavy today; I could use a spot.”
“Didn’t you just finish saying you don’t need anyone watching your back?”
“English prick. Shut up and put on some sweats.”
A workout, a shower, a change of clothes and I’m a new man. Wes doesn’t push me again about Eleanor and I don’t even see Dimitri before I leave.
On my way back downtown, I make a detour—Petra’s Petals.
The building is so small, I feel like I should be ducking when I’m standing inside. It’s bursting at the seams with greenery and smells so much it nearly gives me a headache. I walk up to the counter, where a girl with bright green hair and a nose ring is sitting with her booted feet up on the counter, reading a gossip magazine.
When she doesn’t look up, in spite of my substantial presence in front of her, I clear my throat. “I’d like to set up a weekly delivery.”
She glances up, does a double take, then almost falls out of her chair in her haste to drop her feet to the floor and stand. She preens, thinking she’s being subtle—running her hands through her hair and giving it a little fluff in the back, throwing her shoulders back so the deep V of her shirt shows what she’s got, chewing on her bottom lip to give it some color. Sure, in another life I’d have been drawn to her plentiful curves and interesting features. Adornments like green hair and a nose ring have historically promised wild sex and a limited interest in attachments.
“How can I help you?” she purrs. I can see the sexual interest in her eyes.
Shit. I shouldn’t have come in. She’s attracted to me, so she’ll remember me. Time to pivot. “My boss would like to set up a weekly bouquet delivery,” I amend, irritated. “Something big and bright, but with flowers that don’t smell. I was told I couldn’t do it over the phone.”
Recognition flashes across her face. “Right, you’re the guy who called,” she breathes, running a hand subconsciously across her chest, letting it settle in the center, gripping her necklace.
Shit, shit. She’s the one I talked to on the phone last time. I hold out the prepaid gift card, totally untraceable, and try to seem like I’m in a hurry, using a clipped tone and tapping the plastic against the counter. I can’t be rude, that would make me even more memorable. Plus, it’s not her fault—I’m not obviously taken, or wearing a ring. Still, her flirting exasperates me.
“Same address and same delivery company as before, please. Here’s the card.”
She takes it, brushing her fingers against mine very intentionally, and smiles coyly at me. “No other preferences…” her eyes rake down my body, “for the flowers?”
“As long as they don’t smell and it looks good, dealer’s choice.”
As she smiles, the pink tip of her tongue pokes out to swipe across her bottom lip. She bends down, and pulls out an order form from the shelf underneath the counter. “That’s awesome. We love having creative freedom like that. Fill this out,” she says, turning the paper around to me.
I sigh and glance down at the paper. It has too many questions; I need to be in and out. “No, thanks. Just send as many bouquets as the card will pay for, give yourselves a 20% tip. No note. My boss doesn’t want his name on it.”
She wavers, the seductress act falling to the wayside as she remembers what she should be doing. She turns the paper back to face her and picks up the pen. “Uh… What about delivery timing?”
“Sundays, doesn’t matter when.”
“Okay. Wrapped in paper, standard size? Same as last time?”
“Yup. I really have to get going. Is that everything?”
She sighs, like she’s mourning the loss of the only interesting thing that’s happened to her today. “Yeah. I’ll fill this out for you. Thanks for your business; have a nice day.”
I book it out of there and shake my head as I get back into the sedan. In another time, I would have eaten up her aggression and obvious flirtations. Now, I place one earbud in, sync it up to the feed in Eleanor’s apartment, and listen to my girl milling about as I navigate to the storage facility. I feel a deep satisfaction, knowing she’s safe at home, even if I don’t have eyes on her.
It takes a certain kind of person to not go totally fucking batshit while doing surveillance. Nothing happens for 90% of it, but if you miss that 10% you’ve totally wasted your time. It’s somehow both high stakes and boring. But I think I’ve cracked the code for how to stay awake, and it’s listening to Eleanor’s private life like it’s the best fucking podcast I’ve ever heard.
She has that prick Harrison over for dinner, and I nearly snap the binoculars in my hand. Why does he get to eat her food and enjoy her company? Why is he so special?
After some small talk and friendly banter that better fucking not be flirting, they get into meatier topics. “I don’t think I can live here anymore,” she says softly.
“Really?” the douchebag asks, mouth full of something. “Where else would you go?”
I hear a fork scraping ceramic and I can picture her pushing her food around on her plate. “I don’t know. I guess I was thinking maybe I’d rent a U-Haul and go stay with my sister and figure it out.”
“Whoa,” he says, and I have to agree. I know her sister lives in Pittsburgh, and that’s way too fucking far. “That’s not just, ‘I think I’ll move out of this shitty building,’ that’s another city. That’s a huge change.”
“Yeah, I don’t know…” she inhales. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”
There’s a heavy pause, and when Harrison speaks again, it’s in a soft tone. “Maybe? Um, Ellie, it doesn’t really sound like you have a plan, and that’s not like you. Did something happen at work, or… with that guy?”
I perk up at the mention of me.
“No, he’s… things with him are c-complicated. And work is… okay. I do feel like I’m not really getting anywhere there, though.”
“Why?”
“Oh, just Chef Robert has really been riding my ass and I’m starting to wonder why I’m putting all this time in somewhere I don’t think I want to be long term.”
Chef Robert is about to get a fucking black eye.
“You don’t?” Harrison asks, his mouth full again. He sounds distracted and it’s starting to piss me off. He gets the dinner I wish I had with the company I’d kill for and he’s not even fucking paying attention?
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about trying again with the business plan. I’ve got more experience now, so maybe people will—”
Movement catches my eye and I have to zero in my focus, even though it kills me not to really hear the rest of that sentence. She has a business plan. A dream. I want to know about it.
A man in a leather jacket approached the storage unit, making a beeline for the guy who’s sitting by the door on a cheap wood chair, playing on his phone. He stands when he sees his relief for sentry duty. They grab hands and turn it into a quick, clap-on-the-back type of hug, and chat for a moment. I don’t know what they’re saying because I don’t read lips, but I imagine it’s some variation of the small talk we all make with coworkers, if more bad-guy adjacent. Then, the guy in the leather jacket takes the chair and the other guy heads for the parking lot .
I lean over to record the time of the changing of the guard on the paper in my passenger seat and take a few photos of the new guy’s face.
“—well, can’t you do that here?” Harrison’s asking as I tune back in.
“I guess I don’t really feel that safe here anymore, ” she admits.
That catches my interest, and I can’t help but wonder if I have anything to do with it.
“Not because of that guy, or anything, right?”
For the first time, I’m kind of coming around to this douchebag. At least he asks the right questions—the ones I want him to.
“No, not because of him.” Her tone is so firm, it relieves any lingering doubts. “ It’s… um… the city. There’s just so much crime,” she hurriedly adds.
Even if I didn’t know it already, this wouldn’t sound like the truth to me.
My fingers tighten around the binoculars as hot anger solidifies in my chest. I feel the intense need to let off some aggression, only made worse by the helplessness in not knowing where to direct it.
What’s got my girl feeling scared?