6 Seven
I was alone at a corner table on the rooftop café, watching the city sprawl beneath my boots.
A baseball cap kept the sun from my eyes, and a black bandana was pulled down, stuck just beneath my chin.
My head was angled toward the table so no one would see my features.
My helmet sitting on the empty chair completed the look.
The dress code was meant to let me blend into the noise and disappear in plain sight.
I didn't like bearing my face in public places, but keeping it covered would be even more suspicious.
Right now, I could easily pass as some tired wannabe biker from Silver Lake. In full gear, I would draw too much attention.
My lunch was two bites of overpriced chicken Caesar, now congealing. The rest of the items on the table served as a prop for anyone who cared to look my way. I'd been here forty-seven minutes, sipping sparkling water, careful to never leave prints or DNA behind. I wasn't here for food, anyway.
I was here for him.
Target number one.
He sat three tables across the terrace with a woman who looked like she did Pilates and cocaine before breakfast. She wore a white business suit, heels made for violence, and hair so blonde it blinded my eyes.
His hand lingered too long on her wrist and his laugh was perfectly modulated to broadcast success.
A soft static click. My earpiece fluttered to life.
"You alive up there, boss? Haven't heard from you all day."
I picked up my dummy iPhone and scrolled through nothing, just to blend in further. "Eyes on the target," I whispered to Viper.
"Uneventful, I take it?" He chuckled on the line.
"Seems like he's with another rental," I supplied. "Can you tap into their security system?"
"What kind of question is this? We've infiltrated harder targets." I heard keyboard keys. "Looks like her name is Bambi," Viper offered in a few moments. "Yep, same agency he used to book Crystal B."
I didn't reply.
"Guy's smart," Viper continued. "Removes all the drama that comes with a real-life relationship. Only the fun remains."
Once more, I was quiet. I didn't have much experience with real-life relationships, as I rarely encountered women, especially for fun.
Father had taken me to some private club after I turned eighteen.
There he picked a girl for me and she taught me everything there was to know about sex.
There were all one-night stands. You booked a girl, you did what you had to do because your body needed a release. You left.
Besides, the Bureau frowned upon its operatives investing time in seeing someone on a regular basis. It put everyone else at risk.
Right now, I couldn't relate to Viper but could absolutely relate to the target.
On the line, Viper snorted. "You ever wonder what it's like to have a normal job instead of watching rich sleazeballs?"
"No." This was a normal job. I knew nothing else to compare. "Have you found anything useful on him, or is this just an early midlife crisis? How about those encrypted files? Are they ready yet?" This asshole was taking up too much of my time. I had two more to annihilate to get my cut.
"Hold up. Let me check." Viper was gone for a few minutes. Last night, he'd dug up some information on the target, but the files were encrypted, and he'd been running them through some program ever since.
Finally, my earpiece crackled softly. "I've got a packet that'll blow your mind. Crazy off-ledger stuff," Viper said excitedly, and I could almost hear him bouncing in his rolling chair. "I'll send it to you via transfer."
"Get me a hard copy too."
"In a bit."
I flexed my left hand under the table, releasing a tendon that cramped. "I'm out."
The earpiece clicked dead.
I sighed and glanced around the cafe.
The rooftop was a wash of light and sound—somewhere, a jazz cover of the Pixies hummed out of a speaker, a waiter banged through the kitchen doors with a tray of pink cocktails, two young women took selfies by the glass railing, hair flipping like synchronized swimmers.
The breeze brought a note of burnt coffee and car exhaust, and far below, the street sizzled.
The target signaled for a check. The woman stood, shook out her pants and jacket. The target rose too and steered her toward the elevator. I shifted my chair a few degrees, staying in his blind spot. He didn't look back. He never did.
I left a tip on the table for the waiter, made sure to touch it with my gloved hand. Then I walked to the lobby, passed the elevator, and took the stairs down to the parking lot where my bike waited for me.
I was at seventy-four when the manila envelope slid under my door.
I finished the set—form perfect—and racked the dumbbell without a sound. Rested five breaths, then crossed the room.
The envelope was sealed with black tape and there was a number scribbled on it. One. I knelt, checked the tiny crack under the door for shadows, then scooped it up and flicked it open as I walked back.
The contents fell onto my bed with a crisp, final sound.
The first page was a set of financial statements. The numbers ran into the seven figures. Each page had a different name, but the same slow bleed of assets—all the money siphoned through front companies, funneled into the same three accounts. Switzerland, Singapore, Panama.
The second page was a string of emails between the target and a shell-corp attorney. Most of the words were in code, but the dates told a story. Monthly payoffs, increasing over time. The last one—two weeks ago—was triple the norm. Emergency?
The last page contained a memo from a care facility somewhere in Brentwood.
There was a patient's name. A diagnosis.
Progressive dementia. Daughter's name. She was a primary caregiver and had the power of attorney.
There were additional court documents. The daughter tried to file a case against the target, but it was thrown out by the judge.
There were more documents as I spread the pages in a grid, scanning for patterns. The evidence wasn't just good. It was bulletproof. A prosecutor's wet dream. Not that any prosecutor would ever see it. While this was in my hands.
My earpiece buzzed. "Miss me already?" Viper's voice asked.
"You delivered," I said.
"You know me, boss." He laughed a little. "I take it you saw the extent of his machinations."
"Yes."
"Can you use it?"
"I can." My plan was forming as we spoke.
These scams were predictable, but the volume of cash moved by the target in three years was impressive.
He went mostly for older people with substantial amounts of money and health problems. The one who invested while on the verge of dementia couldn't even remember he'd given away his fortune.
His daughter's fight was a futile attempt. She'd never see a penny.
"Should I keep digging?" Viper asked.
"The judge is in the target's pocket?" I checked.
"Yes. Plays golf with his parents."
"No wonder."
"So, you want more?"
"Not necessary for now. I'll see about using what we have."
I ended the call and shifted to the evidence on the bed. Each piece was already slotting into place in my head. I organized it, put the Denis Nash file on top.
I'd dealt with worse men than this target. But somehow the thought of the old man with holes in his memory, the daughter fighting for a scrap of justice—these things clung to the inside of my skull, the way cigarette smoke sticks to your teeth.
I didn't like that. I wasn't supposed to get sentimental.
Shoving the thoughts aside, I packed the folder only with necessary documents and moved to stand at the mirror in my bathroom. The lights there remained off. It helped me get into character.
My reflection was just a silhouette—dark, broad-shouldered and narrow waisted, hopefully forgettable in the right clothes.
I practiced my new face, ran through the story one last time.
The client wanted the target broken, not dead.
But sometimes, what broke a man was simply showing the world what he really was.
I was in position before sunrise, behind the wheel of a silver Civic with a fake Uber decal and half the windows blacked out. I wore a generic gray jacket, green baseball cap, surgical mask, and sunglasses. Anonymous, but not suspiciously so.
Besides, these days, post-Covid no one questioned masks anymore. I could easily pass for some germaphobe.
Orson Nash's condo tower was all glass and chrome, security tighter than most banks. Viper had run the schedules the night before—guards rotated at 7 AM and 3 PM. Trash and delivery hit at quarter past nine. Residents started moving around 8 AM.
I watched the stream of morning people for half an hour, cataloguing every face, every badge, every gesture of boredom or alertness.
Nash was easy to spot—tall, wiry, hair at the temples becoming wispy white even though he was in his mid-thirties.
He wore a tracksuit and according to Viper never used the lobby's revolving door.
Always the manual, side entrance. Today, I'd intercept him there.
It was perfect because it had less foot traffic.
At 09:36 AM, Orson Nash came out, hands shaking a thermos, and carrying a cycling helmet, eyes ahead. I fell in two steps behind him, pace casual, a fat envelope tucked under my arm. He reached the parking curb, bent to unlock his bike.
"Mr. Nash," I said, soft but clear.
He turned, squinting against the morning sun. "Yes?"
I held out the envelope. "For you. From a concerned party."
He hesitated. "Who are you?"
"Just someone who hates to see injustice."
He stared as if trying to see what was under the surgical mask. "If you are—"
"I don't need anything from you," I cut him off. "Except for looking inside this envelope."
Tense seconds ticked by. Finally, he gingerly took it and opened it. His eyes moved fast over the first page. His hand jerked, a tic of outrage. "What is this?"
"Proof." I kept my voice even. "You and your sister's trust fund will be emptied, piece by piece, over the next few months if you don't take action right now. Ronan Wick is the siphon. Your grandfather has been deceived."
He flipped the page. His mouth trembled.
I looked down, checked my phone. "If you want to stop him, you need to act now.
I suggest to get the authorities involved before it's too late.
He'll be at the Wildhaven. Industry mixer, main ballroom.
Police will listen if you're the first to call.
Otherwise, more people will get hurt." I slipped the dementia patient info there too, knowing that it will have the effect on Orson Nash.
From what Viper and I dug up on the family, they were all decent, especially the grandchildren.
Money didn't spoil everyone. Only the ones who already had evil in their hearts.
Nash stared at me. The fury on his face wasn't like the men I was used to. This was older, deeper, almost pure. "Why are you doing this?"
I shrugged. "The world doesn't fix itself. We are the ones who fix it."
His jaw was tight. He just continued staring at me without saying anything.
I gave him a one-finger salute and walked away, heading around the side of the building, into the service alley.
There were no cameras there—I'd checked.
Twice. At the far end, I peeled off the gloves and mask, dumped them in a trash can, and replaced the jacket with a hoody from my backpack stashed behind the dumpster.
My job here was done. I just hoped Orson Nash wouldn't chicken out at the last minute and finish the target for me.