2. The Job
2
The Job
I’d visited the East Side Tower as a child, tagging after my father on one of his after-hours business meetings. I remembered being impressed by the building’s stature—the tallest in the city at eighteen stories. It boasted a fountain spewing an umbrella of water, windows that spanned every exterior wall, and it housed the offices of Maine’s executive elite. One of whom would be less than thrilled to see me, the angel of death, pulling up to the curb in a ‘90s model Porsche 911.
The valet attendant waved from the check-in desk as I rolled to a stop beside him. My hand quivered as I moved it from the wheel to the gearshift, prompting a last-minute search through the cigarette butts in the center console to find one with some life left in it.
No such luck.
Grumbling, I yanked the keys from the ignition and swung the door wide, nearly taking the valet out at the knees. His smile flagged as I stepped out of the coupe, giving him a clear view of the car’s interior littered with fast-food wrappers and empty energy drink cans. If I’d had more time, I would have borrowed a less distinctive vehicle. But, with half-assed becoming the theme of the day, driving my personal car to a job seemed appropriate.
The valet ripped the bottom off a claim tag and handed it to me. He told me to have a good day and even called me sir, though we must have been about the same age. Too bad I didn’t have any cash for a tip, especially with how hard the guy was trying to maintain his customer service cheer.
Passing the water fountain, I glanced into the bottom bowl littered with pennies. Any coins I’d tossed in there when I was younger were long gone, along with the wishes about what I’d be when I grew up. As far back as I could remember, I’d been slated to join my father as a Capitol investigator. We shared the same magic, and he made a point of introducing me to every influential person he met. High hopes dashed, as I was here now doing the opposite of everything he taught me.
I checked my phone’s clock. 8:51. That left me with nine minutes to find my target, assuming he wasn’t a go-getter who liked to show up early, and that the meeting didn’t kick off before its scheduled time.
Entering the building, I was relieved to find no receptionist. The atrium was empty save for an elevator bay boasting six steel doors. Since the place opened at 8:00 AM, the employees had already arrived, and it was too early for lunch breaks. So, I found myself waiting alone by the elevator button panel, watching the numbers light as the car moved down.
The sign beside me labeled the building’s occupants along with corresponding suite numbers. W. Reeves the risk was too great. God forbid we stirred a hair on a precious human head. Then they wouldn’t be convinced we witches were as tame as house cats. Like we weren’t killing each other daily in ways that would blow a mortal’s mind.
Damn. I’d absorbed more of Grimm’s propaganda than I realized.
I shook my head, stirring the buzzing pest of a migraine that seemed determined to cling on. It was along for the ride, apparently, since Nash’s hangover cure had fully kicked in by now.
How long did I have to wait for the goddamned elevator?
I was ready to search for a staircase when the steel door slid aside with a ding. I stepped inside, faced with a wall of mirrors which I turned rapidly away from. I needed no reminders of my disheveled state, though it may have been my saving grace if anyone on the building’s security team was watching the feed. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize me.
The car rose smoothly to deposit me on the tenth floor. I exited into a large room arranged with cubicles and a central path leading to proper offices. Warren Reeves would be in the back. People in power tended to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their underlings.
Cameras were mounted in the corners of the open area, not to mention webcams on every computer I passed on my way up the aisle. Workers swiveled to watch, prompting me to tuck both hands into my ripped jeans. My tattoos were a topic of conversation to even the most na?ve, but the skull inked on the back of my left hand—a hallmark reserved for members of the Bloody Hex—gave away more than I could risk.
Most of my jobs weren’t this public. I favored suburban residences and solitary corners of the city. But I’d missed my chance to reason with Warren in the privacy of his home, instead spending last night tangled up with Nash and some nameless brunette. Now Reeves’ murder and, by default, his murderer, would be on display.
Grimm’s orders were always clear, but these were explicit. Send a message. A warning to those in favor of opening the borders. Not a hint some might fail to decipher. A big, bloody sign.
Across the beehive of cubicles, the room funneled into a hall. Wooden doors with glass windowpanes let in light from outside and allowed passersby a slim view of each room. Names on brass plates identified the offices. My eyes flicked over them in turn, failing to find the one I sought until I turned the corner.
The corridor formed an L-shape with a doorway on the left and a secondary hall on the right. The open doorway had the same sliver of a window and nameplate as the others, but this one belonged to Warren G. Reeves.
So far, none of the suits had stirred from their offices, unbothered by my intrusion. Avoiding the notice of Reeves’s secretary wouldn’t be as simple. She manned a desk beyond the entry, preoccupied with the contents of her computer screen.
Sucking a breath, I entered the small room. A bay of windows comprised the side wall, lined with houseplants. That meant Reeves’s inner sanctum was ahead, behind the door situated in the back corner. He must have had a nice view of the city from there. A third of the length of the building, if I were to guess.
The secretary glanced over her computer monitor and immediately frowned. She wore a frumpy button-up blouse and horn-rimmed glasses, and her gray hair was twisted into a bun. Not the eye candy I would hire if I had Warren Reeves’s resources. She looked like she came with the building. Antiquated. Also possibly a witch. Some of us blended in more easily than others.
“May I help you?” she asked. Her hand moved toward the phone on her desktop, a visual reminder that security was a call away.
“I need to speak with Mr. Reeves,” I said.
It only took a thought and a crook of one finger to unplug the power cord from the back of the phone. If she decided to raise an alarm, that would slow things down.
Skepticism scrawled across her features. Since her job relied on keeping her boss’s schedule clear of unwanted company, I couldn’t fault her for gatekeeping.
But the clock ticked.
Literally, an analog clock hung on the wall beside me, counting down seconds. 8:58 now. I had seconds to spare before—
“He’s in a meeting,” the woman said. “I can take a memo if you’d like.”
My stomach flipped.
I stepped back, straining to see the adjacent corridor that led to more offices and maybe a conference room or two. “I don’t suppose I could catch him in the hall?” I wondered aloud.
“I’m afraid not.”
Trying again another day or even tonight when Warren was cozied up at home, would have been preferable, but the meeting was the vote, and it couldn’t be undone. If the job didn’t get done now, Warren Reeves would be alive, and I would be as good as dead.
Something besides disdain flickered across the older woman’s face. She gave me another once-over, and her eyes narrowed. “Though, I’m happy to let him know you came by.”
She didn’t look happy to do anything. Rather perturbed, suspicious, and fearful as her hand gripped the phone’s receiver.
“I didn’t catch your name.” She failed to mask the tremor in her voice.
Had I ever wanted to be famous? Or infamous? There was a big difference.
I had fans, sure—mostly loony toons who saw me as a champion of Grimm’s political agenda. Fucking me seemed to be on the bucket lists of people with certain fetishes. I was in no position to kink shame, but having some twink stop in the middle of a blowjob to mansplain autassassinophilia was not my idea of a good time.
Fear, though. That was the reaction I usually got. Dawning realization that they’d seen my face on the news and not for any good reason.
Reeves’s secretary displayed the growing panic of a cornered prey animal. Her eyes were wide and her saggy cheeks paled as she poised to leap from her swivel chair and run—where? She couldn’t get past me if she tried. Her only option for retreat was into her boss’s adjoining office where only a flimsy wooden door would stand between her and me.
Lying about my identity or assuring her I’d come for someone else would do little to ease her mind. Instead, I raised my hands in the universal sign of surrender.
“Don’t worry about it.” I flashed a tight smile. “I’ll reach out to Warren on my own.”
Her gaze traveled upward to my fingers bedecked in black ink. Both the tell-tale rings on every digit and the Bloody Hex’s cursed mark were now on full display. Any suspicions she’d had about my identity were confirmed.
The secretary snatched up the phone.
“Security!” she shouted into the receiver, her voice a strangle. “There’s an intruder in the building!”
The line was dead, of course, but that wouldn’t keep the prairie dogs in the rooms around us from hearing her cry of alarm.
I stumbled back, my stream of thought slowed to a trickle. A sweep of my hand sent a wave of force across the room. Computer screens, keyboard, pens, post-it notes, and the phone went flying off the desktop, crashing into potted plants lining the windowed wall beyond.
“Help!” the secretary screeched, lurching back and nearly falling over her chair. “Someone help!”
The dam in my brain that had been holding in any good ideas opened, letting loose a barrage of thought.
Shut her up.
Snap her neck.
Kill her.
Run.
I took off.
I dashed out of the office, around the corner, then down the neighboring hall. My heart thumped rabbit- fast and air hung in my lungs, fluttering like moth wings.
Reeves’s secretary kept shouting. I didn’t need to look back to know that heads were peeking around doorways, calls were being made from phones I didn’t unplug, and security would soon arrive. On top of that, the odds were good someone had tripped a silent alarm.
The last thing I needed was Capitol investigators flooding the building on the word that Fitch Farrow had been sighted. They would tear this place apart room by room if it meant taking me into custody, and from there…
From there, my life became a domino chain of consequences I wasn’t prepared to face. I needed to get this over with. Fast.
I sprinted down the long hallway until the whine of a vacuum cleaner drew my attention. A maid stood ahead of me, her blue shirtdress emblazoned with the logo of Top-Notch Cleaning Co.
When I rushed up behind her, she jumped and spun. The Dust Buster vacuum swung upright, still running. Thankfully, she didn’t scream. I’d raised enough ruckus without her piling on.
I tucked my hands quickly out of sight and smiled.
“Hey! Hi,” I greeted, trying to slow my rapid breathing. “I’m looking for the conference room. Could you point me in the right direction?”
The maid’s dark eyes softened. She returned my smile purely out of reflex, but I was grateful regardless.
“There.” She gestured toward a bend in the hallway ahead. “But is busy now.”
“Appreciate it.” I nodded, then moved forward with renewed speed.
The hall extended another twenty feet or so, uninterrupted by doors or windows of any kind. At the end, a forced right turn directed me to a long wall of partly-frosted glass. An interior room lay behind it, made apparent by the fluorescent lights mounted in the ceiling and wood paneling framing the exterior windows. The brass plate beside the room’s closed door read Conference 1.
Drawing up to the glass, I stretched onto tiptoes to see my target seated at the head of a long table, joined in discussion by a dozen men in suits.
A dozen witnesses , you mean.
I nipped my pierced lip between my teeth, worrying the steel ring as I stepped back to lean against the opposite wall. I’d been seen by too many people already; been recognized by at least one. And I hadn’t traveled far enough from the threat of the building’s security team. I was still on the same floor, ten stories above the ground exit.
I scanned the hall for cameras and found one in the corner angled toward me. Keeping my hand at my side, I pressed my thumb to my forefinger and twisted. The camera swiveled, aiming its lens away from the show I was about to put on.
Creeping forward, I peeked into the conference room again. Coffee cups and a half-empty box of bagels sat on a long table. Men lined both sides in matching swivel chairs, sipping or chewing while chatting.
The plan wasn’t a plan anymore. I had meant to kill the old man at his desk. Stab him to death with a pair of scissors or twist his head off his shoulders like a soda bottle top. Then I could walk out and leave his corpse for the secretary to find.
This was a different playing field. There were no weapons in sight; no means of dispatching Warren Reeves quietly or quickly. I could strangle him at this distance, leave him purple with his tongue lolling in front of the gaggle of gawkers. But was that big enough? Attention-grabbing, Grimm had told me. Send a message.
Another search of the room found only the barest essentials. All the chairs were occupied and everything else was bolted down or wall mounted.
Windows. There were so many fucking windows in this place. The conference room occupied the building’s corner opposite Reeves’s office, meaning it, too, had glass walls overlooking the city. Ten floors was pretty high off the ground. A hundred feet or so. If Warren took a fall, that would do the trick.
I skimmed the faces of the men casually conversing over their breakfast. They’d get a message, all right.
Fifteen feet separated Reeves and me. Far from the limit of my mental range but, with the added ten feet between him and the window, and his significant body mass actively working against me, I’d given myself a difficult task.
My brain thrummed, an annoyance I shooed away before fixing my attention on Warren Reeves. Such an average fellow to have drawn Grimm’s ire. An easy mark that I had let turn into my white whale.
I splayed one hand against the glass, ready to live up to my namesake. Marionette, the gang called me—the media, too. I was a puppet master who pulled invisible strings.
The first step was to pin Reeves’s lips together, easy as a pinch. The old man’s eyes bugged the moment he realized. I imagined a bit of bagel stuck in his craw, half-chewed and ready to choke him.
Warren cupped both hands to his mouth, then groped his throat. I couldn’t hear well through the wall between us, but he must have been raising a ruckus already. His associates turned toward him one by one.
It took greater effort to draw Reeves to standing, scraping his belly against the table on the way up and sending his chair rolling backward.
His feet moved one painstaking step at a time while he clawed at his sealed lips. My fingers pressed tighter. The volume in the room rose. Muffled questions and shouts clamored together as the other men stood.
Reeves staggered two more steps before I considered the nature of industrial glass. It was made to withstand strong winds, foundational shifts, and birds crashing into it at full tilt. It would take more than the potbellied man’s girth to break through.
I broke visual contact for a rapid moment, searching.
Table? Too big.
Framed pictures on the walls? Of course not.
Coffee cups?
I snorted.
The chair from which Warren had risen completed a lazy turn. Metal framed and sturdy enough to support 300 pounds plus, it may have been tough enough to take on reinforced glass.
A growl of exertion escaped me as I turned Reeves back around and wrapped his hands over the chair’s padded armrests.
Hurry up!
The other men closed in on Warren. One even moved in front of him. But the chair worked as an effective battering ram, clearing a line toward the windows.
Warren forged a path past his would-be saviors, fighting me for every inch. They always did. But people struggled the wrong way—flexing muscles, straining, stiffening—battling the physical symptoms of mental control. A war of the mind had to be waged there, and no one could beat me on my own turf .
Sweat slicked my forehead by the time Warren pushed the chair to the exterior wall. Once there, he needed to lift it, a challenge I hadn’t foreseen.
I could only work with the tools I was given, and Warren’s atrophied biceps were blunt instruments, at best. Heaving the desk chair even to waist height proved a mammoth task. He swayed forward, then back, wobbling in place while my hand curled into a white-knuckled fist.
My agitation manifested as muttered words.
“Just pick it up, you lumbering loaf of—”
Success.
The glass shattered with a pop, and the other men leaped back as though they thought this was an airplane and they might get sucked out if they got too close.
From there, the job finished itself.
Off-kilter from swinging the chair and tightly gripping the armrests I hadn’t dared allow him to release, Warren Reeves fell. His bulbous body pitched forward, then down and out of sight.