10 Seven
Seventy-one.
Seventy-two.
Seventy-three.
Twenty-seven more push-ups to go, I thought to myself as I stared at the floor.
I knew it better than I'd known most people. It was cold, smooth, slightly abrasive where the paint was gone. Each time my chest brushed the concrete, I pressed harder.
On push-up seventy-eight, the burner vibrated against the crate.
Fuck.
I froze, sweat hanging off my jaw, pulse hammering into my ears. Craned my neck. Glanced at the screen.
The number that flashed up was the client.
Double fuck.
Clients were programmed into the operative's burner after the payment.
They never reached out first because they were instructed not to.
Unless, of course, it was a life and death situation, which rarely happened.
I'd only had one other client use the burner to get a hold of me.
To his defense, the client was in a real pickle.
And I had to get him out. But it was years ago. Ever since then, no one had called.
But this brown-eyed woman did.
I was tempted to let myself finish the set. Instead, I got into a crouch, wiped my palms on my shorts, and reached for the phone.
"Operative Seven," I answered. "Are you in danger?"
Silence. Then, "No." Her voice was thin, a smudge on the line. "At least, I don't think so."
I blinked once, twice. "Then we have nothing to discuss." I thumbed the End button.
But her voice slipped in just before the disconnect. "Wait." She sounded different now. Not afraid, just…hollowed out. And maybe a little desperate.
I waited.
"It was you last night, wasn't it?" she asked.
The muscle between my eyes twitched. "I can't answer that."
"You can't or you won't?"
What the hell is up with her? "It's an ongoing operation."
"I know it was you." Another pause. "You bumped your cart into Ronan Wick. In the corridor."
The image came back in a slice. White linen, clink of glassware, Ronan's hand on her jaw. She looked small despite those four-inch heels. I had a job to do and I did it.
I kept my voice flat. "I cannot discuss this with you."
She pushed again, voice steadier. "I saw you after. Leaving on the motorcycle. You looked at me."
That was a problem. I remembered it too well. That damn dress, the hair floating in the wind, the strange look in those huge eyes.
"Do not call this number again unless you are in immediate danger," I said. No argument. I heard her inhale, maybe to speak, but I ended the call.
The room seemed smaller. I looked at the phone, still in my hand, screen already gone black. My grip tightened. I set it face down and ran my thumb over the concrete, tracing invisible cracks.
I didn't get rattled. I wasn't a rookie. I'd been doing this for eight years. There was a protocol for everything and I followed it to the dot. But my heart was still ticking way above baseline, and my chest felt tight.
I was fucking frustrated, I realized.
I didn't want to remember her face or her voice or the way that dress hugged her body.
But for the first time in my life my mind had other ideas.