4 Seven
"Isn't the stakeout phase the worst?" Viper's voice crackled through my earpiece as I sat on my bike.
I'd never met the guy, but I knew the voice well.
It was chipper with a trace of midwestern accent, friendly enough to make you think of endless gray highways, cornfields, and chain restaurants with tiled floors.
He was a chatty fella, always ready to crack some dumb joke.
They weren't funny, but I tolerated them because Viper's main skills were incomparable.
He could find a needle in a haystack of any size.
"Anything noteworthy on the target?" I asked.
"Still searching," Viper replied. "Hang in there, Seven." He was humming some tune in the background and it was distracting.
"Viper, I swear if you start singing another Lady Gaga song, I'm cutting the feed," I muttered under my breath.
"Oh, you know you love it, buddy," he replied with what sounded like a giggle. "My girl Gaga is the queen."
I chose to ignore his commentary.
The job tonight was simple—shadow the target and log his movements while blending into the noise of the city.
Phase one. Or the boring phase.
My lower face was covered by my trusty black bandana, not for fashion but for counter-surveillance.
Cameras were everywhere and they liked nothing better than faces.
A bandana, sometimes a helmet, a posture that slouched or stood out depending on what the hour demanded. Invisibility was a matter of context.
The target—Ronan Wick—exited the mirrored glass lobby of the Delos Building at exactly 19:02 PM.
The man was lean, mid-thirties, suit tailored to the shape of his ambition, angular features.
No briefcase, just a phone in one hand and a leather portfolio in the other.
A Bluetooth piece was jammed so deep in his ear it probably tickled his brain.
I watched him cross the parking lot. He moved like a man who had never tripped in his life. He beeped open the trunk of his car and dropped in a leather portfolio. Then he got in the driver's seat and took off.
I didn't follow immediately. That was amateur hour.
Instead, I counted to ten, killed the burner phone's time stamp, and rolled the bike out behind a row of parked SUVs.
I coasted a full block before merging into traffic, making sure the only tail Ronan Wick ever felt tonight was the one he'd invited himself.
A click in my earpiece. "Seven, do you have a visual?"
"Visual confirmed," I said over the noise of the engine. "Subject's in a black Lexus. Plates KPL-774."
"Copy that, buddy." Viper's voice was always a little too eager, like a terrier on a leash. "Doing more digging." Pause. "Oh wait! I got one."
"Go ahead."
"Why can't a bicycle stand up by itself?"
"Fuck you, Viper."
"Because it's two-tired."
"You're lucky I don't know where you're stationed."
He cackled like a teenager.
Again, I ignored him.
The target owned several cars and Viper's been running them all through the system these past two days, looking for any interesting stories. This Lexus was the last vehicle for us to check.
"He's headed west on Olive." My hands rested easy on the grips. I kept to the left, just two car-lengths back. "Distance is clean." The part of the job I didn't enjoy was talking on the move. It was too noisy. Most operatives drove cars. Communicating inside an enclosed space was much easier.
I had to be different. I needed my Ducati and I needed my vocal cords to hurt way too often. What I did like is the freedom riding a bike gave me during my job.
I heard Viper make a fake yawn. "You should see the server logs from this clown's office. You'd think the guy invented encrypted email," he half-shouted. "Hell, maybe he did. Hey—remind me to run a cross-check against Silicon Valley's Most Punchable List. If I'm not on it by next quarter, we riot."
"Let's talk later." I didn't enjoy when he got all nerdy on a job, but Viper never took the hint. Or maybe he did.
"Later, later, alligator." Another click and he disappeared.
I felt something a lot like relief. Even though feeling things in general wasn't part of my brain's programming.
The target changed lanes, gunned the Lexus toward the on-ramp. He merged into the swelling tide of commuters heading for the outer neighborhoods. I made a note—sudden acceleration, mild risk-taker, possibly nervous. Or just in a hurry to reach the next point on his grid.
He took an exit I didn't expect. Not home. Not gym. Not the usual dinner spot.
"Viper, come in."
"At your service."
"Track shows deviation."
There was a pause while Viper did whatever it was he did in his cave of monitors and fast-food wrappers.
Or at least that's how I imagined his workstation.
"Copy that. Looks like he's headed to Ritz-Carlton.
That's his once a week stop for the past three months.
Days differ through. North garage. Self-park entrance.
Doesn't want witnesses. Guess who's getting laid tonight? " He cackled on the line again.
I didn't comment.
A few minutes later, I glided the Ducati into the same garage. Chose a spot behind a pillar, helmet still on, scanned for the target. He was already inside, heading across the lobby. He held the phone to his face, smiling leerily.
Thirty-four seconds later, I saw him meeting a woman by the restaurant entrance. Blonde, six-inch heels, teeth like a chain of pearls. No pretense of affection. Escort, not girlfriend, I deduced. They had a couple of quick drinks at the bar, then headed over to the elevators.
I relayed it to Viper, "He's with a rental. Five-eight, green dress, Louis Vuitton purse."
Viper hummed. "Crystal B from Newport, five hundred an hour. Should've sprung for the VIP package, but maybe he's on a budget this week."
I suppressed a sigh. "Time stamp and alert when he leaves."
"Roger-dodger."
I sat in the lobby behind the massive plant in the corner, pretending to be reading a magazine. The hood of my sweatshirt I wore under my leather jacket was pulled low over my forehead. No camera would show my face.
I watched the street through the glass wall of the hotel. Time slowed to a crawl of a typical LA traffic jam. I used the downtime to review the target's dossier on my phone.
Finance prodigy, two time TED speaker, rumored oxy habit, sealed police report from when he was seventeen.
No direct connection to the Valmonts except his friendship with Caius Valmont he developed during their college days.
They all ran in the same orbit—hedge funds, start-ups, charity galas with cover fees higher than my annual stipend.
And I made good money. No information on the case from three years ago.
"He's coming out. Alone," Viper said on the line.
I flicked my gaze to the elevator. The target was headed back to the exit toward the garage, straightening his tie, alone. He had the sated look of a man who'd just had a good fuck. He strode to the Lexus, got inside, and drove off.
I let him have a two-minute lead before following.
"He's on the move again," I told Viper.
"Back to the office?"
"Negative. Heading south on Juniper."
"You want his schedule for tomorrow?" Viper asked. "And his call logs?"
"Yes."
A pause. "He's got a calendar block for 2 PM. Red Iguana Country Club. Meeting with Nash. I'm sending you the address."
"Copy. Do we know who this Nash is?"
"Hang on." Another pause and some computer keyboard clicking. "Board member at the Pacific Investment Consortium. Old money. Nothing interesting on grandpa. They did book a VIP room. Bet you anything it's not golf they're discussing."
"Copy. Over and out." I got all the info I needed for now. I didn't care about Viper's jokes.
Instead, I followed the target all the way to his gated townhouse in the hills. He parked, checked his phone, then hustled inside without a backward glance.
Country clubs always made me think of morgues. The artificial chill, the white-gloved staff gliding silent as phantoms, the bright lacquered surfaces so clean you'd swear nobody had ever touched them.
Red Iguana was no exception. It squatted at the end of a private road, hidden from the rest of the city by a perimeter of cypress trees and an army of cameras that didn't even pretend to be subtle.
I stashed my bike in the bushes at the bottom of the hill and arrived to the club on foot, wearing blue cargo pants and a matching button-down with a fake company logo. I had a toolbox in one hand. Empty. The trick was to dress professional enough to make people uncomfortable asking questions.
I had to bare my face for this particular task, but I'd driven past the club at dawn to check their surveillance.
I knew the best angle and spot to ensure my face would not be seen on the monitors, should someone check.
Plus, I had a disguise. A moustache always came in handy in situations like this.
At the service entrance, a rent-a-cop blocked my path with a clipboard. He wore a badge that said Assistant Security Director, but the paunch over his belt said Last Job Was Mall Cop.
I gave him a fake name Viper had provided me with.
"You're not on the list," he said. His eyes never left the clipboard.
"Don't need to be," I told him. "Valerio's asked for me. Got a last-minute temp contract. Maintenance audit, some kind of water pressure thing."
He grunted. "Valerio's not in yet."
I shrugged. "He said to ask for Maria if there's a problem. Or you can call the main office and explain to the owner why their party might get shut down."
He grunted.
"Look, man. I got another gig after this. I'm only here because I'm doing Valerio a favor," I pressed on.
People always caved when you made them realize their own incompetence could tank their boss's work.
Assistant Security Director winced and stepped aside. "Just don't wander, okay?"
"Got a job to do."