Chapter Fourteen
The River Walk is quiet on Monday morning.
Instead of twentysomethings in bright sports bras out for a run, groups of women in their fifties and sixties power walk, pumping their fists.
A young woman pushes a cat in a pet stroller.
City workers cruise down the river itself, collecting trash, performing maintenance.
Meanwhile, I’m in my typical workout getup: yoga pants, a tank top, a ponytail, hat, and dark sunglasses, the muggy air already leaving my skin sticky.
But the girls are safe at school, and I’m ready to do reconnaissance for my Big Job.
Immediately followed by a Costco run, because no mother is ever allowed a day to simply get shit done without the distractions of familial obligation.
The weekend crawled by as I anticipated the moment I’d put eyes on my mark for the first time.
It was filled with Eliza waking up before dawn, chocolate chip pancakes, a trip to the park, and—of course—a wander with the double stroller to this very spot for reconnaissance.
I scouted the area while the girls played in one of the fountains—or “water mountains,” as Evie calls them.
Then I took the girls to Storytime at The Sprig, the perfect opportunity to get a look at the place, inside and out.
It was the height of combining work and play and allowed me to take photos without looking suspicious—photos with my girls in them, but focused on the buildings, the way the light falls and where I could step into a shadow to hide, where the security cameras are.
I studied the images for hours last night, once the girls were asleep. Now, my gaze lingers over my best escape route should I need it: an unobtrusive alleyway that empties out into a four-way crossing filled with buildings and parking lots. I’ve left a rental car there, just in case.
At five to ten, I take a walk. I go to where the concrete stops and step onto brick paving, winding past the Pearl Brewery and passing shops left and right.
A warm breeze floats over my skin, testing the limits of my antiperspirant, and I check every corner, every rooftop, peer at faces passing by.
A mom with a stroller leans over a baby, a woman with a coffee and a laptop sits in the muggy morning air, typing away, the click-clack of her laptop keyboard audible over the soft music piped out through the plaza.
A server wipes down tables at an outdoor dining area, and an older couple moves slowly down the walkway holding hands.
I take in each and every one of them. No one is innocent in my eyes.
I’ve never had someone try to stop me from doing my job, but it’s always a possibility.
My watch beeps ten o’clock just as a chime reverberates through the square: the Pearl clock tower. It was installed in the early 2000s as they attempted to revitalize the area. Now, it serves as a reminder: it’s time to go.
My senses sharpen, my breath evens out. A thrill of adrenaline shoots through my every extremity.
I wipe sweat from my brow—the steamy air is increasingly heavy, oppressive—and I stride toward The Sprig as a tall, slender man in jeans and a collared shirt unlocks the door.
He gives me a broad smile, murmurs, “Good morning, welcome,” and holds it open for me.
Inside, chilled by the air-conditioning, I take a slow walk through the rows of shelves.
Hundreds if not thousands of books neatly tucked side by side.
Secrets cloaked in bindings tight. My gaze lingers over one I’ve read.
Are there secrets here for me? A book I’m supposed to open?
I make my way through the stationery area, past the children’s section, where Eliza picked out a chapter book she can’t read quite yet.
Besides the employees, I’m the only one in the store, and I have to pause, wonder if I’ve misread the package.
I’m on my second circle of the store when I catch sight of him—a man in the mystery and thriller section.
He holds a book. The Secrets, it simply reads.
My gaze latches on to the cover, then to his face.
He’s watching me. He’s tall, like Ian, with dark hair, bright blue eyes, a smattering of freckles.
Likely, he works for the agency in some capacity—this vague, clandestine grouping of people like me.
People who hire people like me. No one speaks to them except John, keeping them safe—keeping me safe.
This man might be a glimpse of who they are, a parting of the veil…
Or maybe he’s a dude they paid twenty bucks to read this particular book in this bookstore at this exact moment, and once we part ways, he’ll go back to his life of driving for Uber.
The man clears his throat, tucks the book under his arm, and extends one hand to point outside, where the sun coming through the window all but blinds me.
A lover you’ll follow into the bright.
I return my gaze to him. Is he the lover? A book lover, maybe?
“Beautiful morning.” He tips an imaginary hat and goes up front to pay.
It will be beautiful once I kill the mark, anyway. Which, I remind myself, will happen in good time. Today is about reconnaissance—about doing the job well.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the hunt.
My heart thuds in my chest, and I hurry to the window just in time to see two people slip from the neighboring storefront.
A man. A woman. Both wear suits in slightly differing shades of gray.
The woman, I notice, doesn’t wear heels as most women do.
Instead, she’s in flats. I often do that, too, in case I need to run.
Her hair is swept up into a fancy bun. The man moves too fast for me to get a good look at him, but he’s tall, broad.
He has to be my mark. Suddenly, they’re in a waiting town car with tinted windows, and a driver is closing the door, and—
I reach into my purse as I push out the door to the sidewalk.
My phone to my ear, I hurry along like I’m late.
When I’m close to the town car, I stumble, drop my bag, let the contents scatter all over the ground; my gun is tucked safely in a holster at the small of my back.
As I stand up, I use the bumper of the car for support, flushing.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” The driver steps out of the town car and moves to help me.
“I’m fine, thanks. Just—” I laugh, gesture to my spilled purse, pretend to be a distracted woman going about my business. No threat here—I’m just a busy mom! “In a hurry.”
A second later, the town car pulls away from the curb. It’s a Cadillac XTS. Black. Windows so dark I can’t imagine they are legal. I catch the license plate, repeat it until it’s memorized. But none of this really matters.
The rental car sits parallel parked a block away. As I start the engine, I pull out my work phone, open an app, and watch the little dot cruise down the highway.
Like any assassin worth her salt, I placed a nearly invisible tracker on the car; now all I have to do is follow it.