2 Seven
I was at ninety-eight with knuckles grinding into the concrete when the burner went off. My breath—even and measured—stuttered.
Fuck.
I let it ring and finished the last two push-ups. I felt the shake in my triceps, the heat in my scar, the clean animal pain that told me I was alive and nothing else.
The burner continued to scream just a couple of inches away from me. That was the rule here: always keep the phone within reach.
I rolled, snatched it from the crate I used for a nightstand, and answered without looking at the number. "Operative Seven."
"Father requests your presence," the voice said, tight and businesslike. Secretary.
I sat up, wiped a line of sweat from my forehead with the back of my free hand. "Right now?"
"Yes," Secretary confirmed.
I ended the call, slipped on a black T-shirt from the clean laundry stack, and double-checked the room out of habit.
It was spartan with no windows—a modest twin bed, the crate, a shelf with several military-themed and psychology books, a closet with a week's worth of tactical clothing, and some basic hygiene products.
A lamp stood in the corner next to the rack of dumbbells.
I kept nothing else. The Bureau didn't want us attached to anything.
The corridors outside were empty. Always, at this hour.
Or any hour for that matter. The light was pale, buzzing with the low energy of multiple fluorescents.
Cameras tracked every angle, but I knew the dead spots—Father had mapped them himself, taught us how to ghost through our own house.
He called it training. The doors I passed were numbered, no names.
Sometimes you'd hear a voice from behind one, low and strained, or a TV.
Security glass ran along the east hall, a fishbowl view of the backup server cluster.
The only other living thing on my route was an old janitor buffing the same square of floor he always buffed at this time.
We never acknowledged each other. The appropriate greeting here was a nod, a flicker of eye contact. Anything more was a risk.
I didn't know how he looked because he wore a mask and he'd never seen my face either. Another rule here was to never leave your room without cover. Mine preferred one was a black bandana that hid most of my face except for the eyes.
Father's office was downstairs and at the end of the main corridor, past two keycards and a print scanner. I pressed my thumb to the plate, waited for the soft blue chime, then entered.
Inside stood a lonely round table with a lamp with a cone of light. Across, under the cover of shadow, a male silhouette occupied a chair.
Father.
His face was obscured by the dark. Today he wore a three-piece suit, cuffs buttoned with dull black studs. His hands were resting on a manila envelope in his lap.
I waited, standing.
"Operative Seven," he said in a gravelly voice. "Sit."
I sat. The chair wasn't like his. It was too straight, designed to make you feel exposed and uncomfortable.
He regarded me for a moment. Or least it felt like he did. I imagined his eyes in the gloom, trying to remember what color they were. But it's been too many years since he'd shown me his face.
"How are you?" he asked.
I replied automatically. "I'm ready."
"You don't wonder what you're ready for?"
"I figure you'll tell me."
Father tapped the manila folder, fingers drumming with impossible precision. "There's an inquiry. It requires your particular skill set."
I glanced at the envelope, knowing what it contained. The potential targets. "What's the job?"
"The details are here." He tossed the envelope on the table.
I picked it up and broke the seal. Inside were four high-resolution photos, each printed with a matte finish on archival stock.
The first one was a surveillance shot. A young woman on a park bench at dusk in an oversized hoodie and leggings.
She looked like she was bracing against the wind, or maybe against the world itself.
Her posture was compressed, arms locked tight in her lap.
Face pale, eyes locked on the water as if daring it to look away first. Next to her sat Father.
Of course, his face wasn't visible. The background was a park, and the sky was dark.
"This is the client," he said.
Typically, the operatives didn't engage with clients directly, but we needed to know how they looked in case they were somehow close to the targets. There could be no room for error, no unnecessary collateral damage.
I took a moment to catalog the details about the client I could see in the photo. Age was somewhere between twenty-five to twenty-seven. She looked about five-six, lean, likely a runner or a swimmer from the limb definition. Unremarkable, but maybe on purpose.
Father watched me watch the picture.
"She works from home. I highly doubt you'll ever cross paths," he spoke.
I didn't respond. I had no need for any additional info. I mostly wanted to know who the targets were.
The second photo was of a man in a high-rise lobby, framed by marble and chrome.
Thirty-ish, light brown hair, angular features, sharp, expensive suit.
His posture was performative, hands tucked behind his back, chest forward, a lion showing off in front of the camera.
Eyes were cold, mouth shaped into a smile that wasn't meant for anyone.
"Ronan Wick," Father said. "Target number one." There was some basic info about him on the back of the photo, which I scanned. More would come later.
I moved on to the third image. Another man, this time in a gallery, white-walled and hung with oversized canvases. He looked like a rat king—a little taller, neatly combed hair, green eyes with a flicker of intelligence and greed. He wore a navy suit, but with less discipline than the first man.
"Jerico Thorne," Father continued. "Second target."
I flipped to the last photo.
It was a headshot, the kind that only money could buy, the kind you sent to magazines when you wanted to look like a better version of yourself.
The man's face was handsome in a way that made you want to punch it.
His hair was black with some silver streaks at the temples, meticulously styled, his jawline classically squared.
He wore a smile, but his eyes were dead.
"Caius Valmont. The ringleader," Father supplied. "You take him on last."
I nodded, took all the photos and spread them in a row on the desk, faces up. I looked at each in turn, burning the details into memory. Body language, tells, weaknesses. Everything I could get from these photos and everything I needed to get me started. I was good at reading faces off paper.
Father steepled his fingers. "The client wants to settle the score," he said. "Three years ago, the targets took turns with the client at a high-end party in Westwood. Drugged her, did what they wanted."
The world ran on this kind of filth, and the Bureau's job was to clean it up—quietly, efficiently, no traces. Only justice.
"The Valmonts have resources," Father went on. "They bought the girl's silence with a settlement and a foolproof NDA and then got the case thrown out in appellate. Removed any mention of this from anywhere they could online. Erased her from the industry. The client is still on her forty-eight."
A normal person was supposed to feel something after hearing about what had happened to the client, but in my line of work every job was a sob story.
And emotions? They were unfamiliar to me.
Father always taught me not to let feelings influence my decisions if I wanted to survive.
And I had. I'd survived this wretched world so far.
I'd never let some useless sentiments ruin it for me in the future.
"Standard shadow and reconnaissance to begin with," Father said. "If it escalates, you know the drill. No unexpected moves. We want these men broken."
I let the silence breathe while the gears were turning in the back of my mind.
"Questions?" Father asked.
"No," I said, rising to my feet.
"Good. These men should get what they deserve."
"They will. Just let me know if the client is ready to move forward."
I placed the chair back where it was when I'd walked in with surgical precision, and let myself out. The door clicked shut behind me.