28 Seven
I crouched behind a dumpster, knees wedged to my chest and my jacket zipped tight, while the black-glass service entrance of Club Dionisius across the way bled intermittent rectangles of light into the alley.
Tonight's job was simple—verify that the intel I'd received from Viper about the third target's extracurricular activities was solid. This suited me better than tailing the asshole all over the city to his business meetings and social functions.
According to Viper's sources, Club Dionisius was Valmont's favorite haunt. It was Thursday evening, which meant the place would churn with trust fund nobodies and those too desperate to earn some easy money.
My bandana covered the bottom half of my face, and my helmet rested on the curb beside me, visor reflecting the puddle slick.
I checked my watch, then my phone, then the exit. Again.
My mind drifted back to the phone conversation I had with Kimmy the other day. Her silly questions had been playing inside my head on a loop.
Do you have a name?
Do you have protocols for everything?
I take it you don't go out and have fun when you're off work? Like movies or karaoke night or clubbing?
I'd never cared to think about any of those free time activities.
At least not until she'd spoken about it.
Sure, I'd witnessed other people doing it—having fun—when I observed them for the job.
But Father always said going out and doing something that didn't get us closer to the goal we had in mind was a waste of time.
Life was short and any second you spent unproductively drove you to the useless kind of death.
It was grim. But it made sense.
And now it didn't.
You need to stop paying attention to what she says.
You belong to different realities.
The service door cracked open and I shifted my attention to the club. A blonde in stiletto heels, swinging a gold clutch so fake it was probably more expensive than the real thing, tottered out.
I made a note of it and quietly communicated it to Viper.
The next fifteen minutes were boring with nothing happening.
I waited patiently until a brunette with sleeve tattoos that started at her knuckles and climbed all the way to the neckline of her mesh top exited the club.
She didn't have a purse on her. She paused and smoked in silence, just past the range of the security camera.
Her hand shook slightly. Once the cigarette was done, she flicked it on the ground and went back in.
I pressed my earpiece, careful to keep my hands low and slow.
"I've got eyes on another one. Brunette. Inked. You copy?" I murmured, keeping the volume low. My eyes never left the door.
Viper's reply was instant. "Loud and clear, boss. You see the target yet?"
"Not yet. You sure he comes Thursdays?"
"Yes."
I waited. A taxi pulled up into the alley and a female figure appeared. Red hair, cut to the jaw, lipstick half-eaten away. She wore a gray trench, no purse, just hands shoved deep into the pockets. She moved slow and deliberate. Like she was stalling for time before entering the place.
"Visual on a redhead. Alone. Sloppy makeup. Trench coat." I described the stride, the way the mark's hands wouldn't leave her coat.
"That's the mark," Viper replied. "Her name's Cassandra. Sister's been in the hospital for six months. She's been coming to this place ever since."
"Copy." I didn't need her name. Anyone who was part of the game but not the target were all marks.
"Be careful, boss. Who knows what's in that cesspool. You might get an accidental blow job."
I muted the earpiece. Didn't need more irrelevant commentary.
Cassa—the mark paced the alley twice. She checked her phone, then walked in.
Five minutes later, a limo arrived. The man who climbed out was the last target. He went in.
After a couple of hours, the mark appeared from the building.
Her eyes were tired and she was holding the collar of her coat wrapped tightly around her neck.
She checked the phone, possibly waiting for her ride.
A taxi emerged from around the corner, braking hard with hazards blinking. She slipped inside.
I let her get half a block before I moved to my Ducati hidden away nearby.
The engine whined, then hushed down to a feral rumble. I strapped on the helmet and hit the throttle.
At every intersection, I counted cars. One, two, three. Never more than that. Any closer would put me at risk. Any further and I'd lose her.
It was roughly twenty minutes before she hit her stop—a block of upscale apartments with a lobby big and fancy enough to park a Bentley inside.
I glided past, killed the headlight, then rolled the bike into the shadow of a bus shelter across the street.
I could see her pay the fare, count the bills, then slide out of the vehicle.
She winced as she stood.
She made it to the entrance and buzzed herself in.
I checked my watch, then the apartment directory Viper sent me via secure transfer onto my phone.
Four stories, sixty units. The name read The Lux.
The mark's name wasn't even on the lease.
Her sister's was. She moved in here four months ago, a little after she started going to Club Dionisius.
I waited two minutes, then three. Looked around.
No sign of pursuit. Not even a bored cop loitering in a cruiser.
But I still felt the air tighten around the building, as if something waited on the inside.
Viper had detected a tail on me recently and I'd been extra careful.
He also intercepted some questionable communication between the target and some hired guns he used for jobs that required discretion. I had no doubt that job was finding me.
I checked the backup plan in my head. If we missed something and someone was indeed tailing me, there was a knife in my backpack. A handful of zip ties. A second knife was strapped to my ankle.
Anyone who would try to play me would be in for a nice surprise.
I waited exactly five minutes before making my move.
My bike had already been left at the street parking slot, the license plate obscured and hidden from the cameras on the building.
There was an elderly couple in the lobby ready to leave and I used this as an opportunity to slip inside.
I removed the bandana from my mouth and pulled the baseball cap lower to hide my eyes and kept my head down as I crossed the street, shoulders hunched to mimic someone cold, or tired, or hungover.
The old man pushed the door open and let the woman exit first. I was there, thanking him with my phone glued to my ear as if I was on an important call.
He just smiled at me and continued on.
The building's lobby was marble and glass, all blank surfaces, the kind of place that took itself seriously.
The security desk was empty. That was a mistake.
My boots squeaked on the polished floor while the glass doors hiss shut behind me. I pulled the bandana over my nose and scanned the room in a quarter second. The sign indicated elevators were to the left and stairs to the right. A fake palm tree by the column in the corner.
I turned right and into a narrow hallway and headed toward the stairs, hands in jacket pockets, back straight. Didn't make it five steps.
A shadow separated itself from the wall and launched at me.
He went for my face with both hands, a knife already out and glinting.
I twisted my head and drove my elbow into his ribs.
Felt the air pop out of him. But he didn't let go—he grabbed at the bandana, fingers clawing to rip it off, and we spun together, knocking over a low table.
I hit the floor hard, back scraping marble, vision filled with the ceiling's chandelier and his arm driving straight for my jaw.
Instinct cut in. I rolled, caught his wrist, and bent it backward. He grunted but didn't drop the knife. Instead, he switched hands, slicing under my left side. The pain was hot and sharp and way too close to the kidney. Not the worst I'd ever felt, but enough to matter.
I bit back a curse and drove my knee up into his stomach. He doubled over, not for long, and tried again for the bandana. I headbutted him, hard. A wet sound, a flare of red. He staggered, but not far.
I used the momentum to get to my feet and bring my fist down on his face. This time, he dropped to the floor and didn't move.
I didn't think. I sprinted to the door, hand pressed tight against the wet heat soaking through my T-shirt and jacket.
I ducked outside, back into the night and around the corner.
There, I leaned against the cool brick of the building.
My breaths were short, shallow, but controlled.
I took off my gloves, unzipped my jacket, and looked at my T-shirt.
It was soaked in blood. I peeled it up with one hand and checked the wound.
Not deep—off to the side, below the ribs, nothing immediately fatal, but needing some minor patching up before blood loss became substantial.
Fuck.
I'd never gotten this blindsided.
I exhaled, counted the seconds, then zipped up my jacket and walked back to my bike, holding a hand over the wound.
I couldn't afford blood on the sidewalk.
What worried me is the possibility of leaving blood in the lobby.
Blood meant DNA. DNA in the wrong hand meant my identity could be discovered. And my connection to the Bureau.
I made it to the bike, put the gloves back on, pulled out my phone, and called the number that was on the apartment complex on the Leasing Now sign.
After a few transfers, I got to speak to the right person.
I said I was a resident in unit ten and complained that I just saw blood in the lobby.
I added that I would sue the management if it's not cleaned up immediately.
By the time these fools figured out who the right tenant in unit ten was—if such a unit even existed or was leased to someone—the mess in the lobby would be cleaned and my DNA would be gone before someone I didn't need got to it.
Then I locked my helmet in place, and forced myself to straighten up. The pain radiated in hot, regular waves—every heartbeat a little electric jolt through the side of my torso.
Fuck.
It had been a long time since I got injured on the job.
It was almost embarrassing.
My hands trembled as I gripped the throttle. Not with fear, but with worsening pain.
The city opened up ahead as I wove into traffic, engine howling, wind shoving the adrenaline back through my veins. As I rode, I turned on the mic for my earpiece and shouted, "Viper, come in!"
There was a static pause before he said, "You sound like shit."
"I'm fine. There's a second party in play."
"For real?"
"I just got ambushed while trying to get to the mark."
"You? Got ambushed? Impossible."
"Tell that to the guy who just stuck me in the lobby."
Viper's voice sounded worried. "How bad?"
"Nothing major hit."
A beat. "Want me to run the cameras?"
"Yes. Someone in Bale Security is playing dirty."
"Motherfuckers," Viper cursed. "Want me to tell you the nearest hospital?"
"Don't be cute. Safe house."
He paused, checked. "Twenty minutes east."
I did the math. Twenty minutes with this wound on a bike was a bit of a Russian roulette situation. "Too long," I said.
"Then come back to the compound. Doc will check you out."
But the compound wasn't much closer. The only other place I could think of was her apartment. It was probably no further than ten minutes away.
"I'll handle it," I said. "I know a place."
"Do tell."
"Later," I replied and cut the line before swinging a hard right on the next street. Every signal screamed at me. The bike shuddered at every pothole. I gritted my teeth and let the pain ride shotgun.
What the fuck are you doing?
The thought hit, hard and clear.
Didn't Father tell you to stay away from the client?
But she wasn't a client. Not anymore. She was Kimmy.
My vision had already started to swim when her building came into view.
I parked by the curb around the corner, away from the street light.
I peeled the glove off and checked the bleeding again.
My T-shirt under my jacket and the waistband of my pants were soaked.
It was messy enough to scare a civilian, but not enough to kill me. Yet.
I was glad I wore black. You couldn't see blood on my clothes very well right now.
I got the bike, slowly walked toward the corner of the building while pressing my hand to my wound, and waited in the shadow of the awning for a beat, tracking the door to the complex and the windows.
I wasn't here because of the injury. It was just an excuse, I realized.
I could have gone back to the compound.
But no. I thought showing up in front of the apartment of a woman who suffered from PTSD bleeding and dizzy was a great idea.
What the fucking fuck are you, doing, Operative Seven?
I didn't really know. But I was definitely here because of her, because now that it got bad, I didn't want to be at the compound, listening to Father's sermon. I wanted to be somewhere warm.
And, oddly, the only warmth in my life was Kimmy, the woman I hardly knew, the woman I'd met a few weeks ago.