8 Seven
From behind the tall ficus at the edge of the room, I watched the police lock the target's wrists in stainless steel and frog-march him through the gauntlet of phone cameras and open mouths.
I was ready to leave this place.
There was no need to stay and observe the aftermath. Even though, sometimes I found myself wanting to know what would happen next. I ignored the urge just like I ignored every other stray emotion that threatened to sabotage the job. As soon as the target was escorted out of the building, I moved.
I slipped through the kitchen doors and vanished into the service corridor. Here, the world was industrial—blue tile, fluorescent lights, Spanish speech. The air smelled like dish soap and bleach.
I peeled off the uniformed shirt as I walked, exposing the black long-sleeve underneath. The shirt went into a rolling linen hamper at the end of the hall. Someone would find it tomorrow and think nothing of it. By then, any traces of my DNA would be gone thanks to a commercial grade laundromat.
Two doors past the utility closet, I cut left, counting the number of security cameras and the interval on their sweeps. Viper was very useful with the schematics. I moved through their blind spots as a ghost, removing the fake beard from my jaw and fixing my trusty bandana on my face.
At the end of the corridor, a heavy service door led out into the night. I pushed through and let it slam shut behind me.
The air outside was cold, sharper than it had any right to be for Los Angeles in spring. It braced my lungs and scrubbed the chemical memory of the event from the inside out, specifically the scene with the target and client. The two had almost ruined my plans.
I shook it off as I moved.
Once the job was done, I didn't care to remember the specifics. I'd never need them again. I'd never see those people either.
I walked briskly, without looking back, past the smokers on break, past the chatting cooks, past the security guards.
The edge of the parking lot where I'd left my bike was mostly empty, save for a few Uber drivers and one woman in a red dress and stilettos, screaming at her phone with a heavy European accent.
It was a perfect spot—security cameras didn't catch this angle.
I skirted the yellow cone and walked straight to the Ducati that waited by the far curb, hidden by the darkness.
I grabbed the helmet from the storage compartment, checked the foam for tampering—paranoid or cautious or whatever—and slid it over my head.
The world snapped to a tunnel.
As I pulled on my gloves, I took one last look over my shoulder. The Wildhaven's windows glittered like eyes, all of them blind now to what had occurred.
I mounted the bike and started the ignition. The engine's growl was a perfect sound. A welcome distraction from hours of playing someone else.
The helmet's foam pressed hard against my cheekbones as I peeled away from the curb. That was fine. I liked when my body remembered I was still in it.
Near the exit, I rolled the Ducati behind a row of SUVs and killed the lights. Then I thumbed the button on my jacket activating the mic and waited for the line to sync.
"Viper, do you copy?"
"Yes, I do, boss," he replied momentarily in a lively voice, followed by an obnoxious slurping sound. "Just enjoying my jumbo-sized slushy, don't mind me."
"Target one eliminated," I reported.
Viper answered on the first blip. "Great job, Seven. He'll rot. Big messy trial, minimum ten years. They're gonna eat him alive in there." He let out a hearty laugh. "I wonder if they serve Jell-O in prison these days. I sure do love me some Jell-O."
"Want me to send you in so you can scope things out firsthand?"
"Nah, I'd rather just hack their security system. Faster that way."
I said nothing.
"I'm watching the show on local feeds," Viper circled back to our current situation. "It's already gone viral. Hope the client is enjoying the fireworks. It cost her a pretty penny."
"I'm out," I said and turned off the mic.
In the silence, I tried not to replay the client's face in my mind.
I didn't care to remember her. Period. I'd only seen her for five seconds in the corridor, a blip in my sightline, but the image stuck.
She was small, shivering, like a deer in headlights.
She didn't look like someone who had the guts to buy justice for herself.
She looked like someone who got hit by it, point-blank.
I shook off the thought, twisted the throttle, and let the bike carry me around the block to avoid the police cars still lingering near the venue.
Operatives didn't engage with clients. We were only given their identities to avoid making a mess.
I didn't need to think about that woman or how she looked in that sky blue satin dress with her strawberry blonde hair down.
It was none of my business.
As I turned the corner, the road around me blew up with traffic and sounds. The main entrance of the Windhaven was to my right. The traffic light was a block away.
Up ahead at the intersection, a car with a neon Uber beacon shuddered to the curb by a ramen bar. The light flashed yellow. I hit the brakes and slowed, inspecting my surroundings.
I didn't clock the passenger who'd rushed to the Uber, at least not until I was closer. Then I realized it was her.
The client.
She pulled the rear door open, clutching her bag to her chest with the other hand. She moved in that half-frozen way people do when they expect the world to hit them at any second.
She saw me. The Ducati's headlight stuttered across her for a second as I rolled up to the light. She raised her face. Her eyes locked on the helmet, like she was trying to see past the visor and into the bone.
I should've looked away immediately. Should've ignored that stare. But instead, I watched her back, as much as the small stretch of the street allowed me while I waited for the light to turn green.
Stupid!
You don't think just because your face is hidden, she can't tell some asshole's forty-five-degree head-turn doesn't mean he's not looking at her?
Realizing my mistake, I swung my head back to the light so fast, a muscle in my neck spasmed.
Fuck.
The light flashed green. I hit the gas. The Uber moved too and she was behind me now, invisible but following for a few blocks.
My grip tightened on the throttle. There was a feeling in my chest, sharp and strange. Like hunger, or a pinched nerve. I banished it. Tried to ignore the fact we shared the road.
Instead, I shifted my thoughts to the second target—Jerico Thorne.
But the feeling came back, sooner than I expected. Sooner and stronger.
And I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit.