4 Seven #2
I breezed through, not looking back. Viper had given me the names this morning. Maria and Valerio were the managers here, and the Bureau had dummy records for all the temps. The infiltration would be clean, so long as I didn't start a fire or knock anyone unconscious.
Inside, I mapped the terrain. Service hallway to the left, kitchens ahead, a staff changing room behind a locked door that took me five seconds to bump open with a metal shim.
Nobody inside. I picked a uniform off the rack, found a white apron, checked myself in the mirror.
I could have passed for a waiter at any wedding in the county.
I stashed my toolkit and the clothes that got me inside into a utility locker, then walked out through the kitchen. Assistant Security Director who'd let me in would never know there were no water pressure issues.
Nobody stopped me. They were too busy prepping shrimp cocktails or cursing about yesterday's produce order. I moved with the current, tray in hand, head slightly bowed, away from cameras.
In the main dining room, sunlight blasted through double-height windows. I crossed the space and headed for the VIP area. They weren't exactly rooms. They looked like tall booths but the sound didn't travel.
A massive chandelier sparkled above a redwood table the size of an aircraft carrier where the target and Mr. Nash were already seated.
Denis Nash looked old and wrinkly with yellow skin and dull eyes. The target lounged across, his body language disciplined, eyes half-lidded. He was pretending not to be impressed, but I could see the tension in his neck. This wasn't a social call. He was here to close a deal.
I hovered at the periphery, checking for any hint of suspicion.
None. The real waiter, a kid around twenty, watched me from the sidelines, a little too confused to intervene.
Perhaps, he didn't recognize me as part of the team.
I offered him a tight smile to confuse him even more and kept moving, closer and closer to the table.
I waited for the signal. Soon, Nash waved me over, asked to refill his water.
As I leaned in to pour it, I used my other hand to slide a bug—small, black, adhesive—under the edge of the tablecloth.
The move was invisible unless you were searching for it.
Even then, you'd have to know exactly what to look for.
They kept talking. I left, but not before topping off my target's glass and using my sleeve to wipe a nonexistent spill. I took the pitcher and retreated to the men's room, locked myself in the last stall.
"Viper?" I whispered.
"Loud and clear, Seven."
"Audio's live."
"Hell yeah." I could hear the teeth clacking on his end. "I wish you'd let me run a visual in there."
I ignored that. "Stay on the feed. I'll ping if anything."
"You say that like you ever need help at all."
I switched the channels, muted the mic, and listened. The voices came through the earpiece, slightly low but clear.
"…you're looking to grow your investment portfolio for the benefit of your grandchildren," the target was saying.
"My grandchildren mean the world to me," Nash replied. “If anything should happen—well, I'd rather set them up privately, without the rest of the pack getting wind."
The target was slick. "Absolutely, Mr. Nash. Discretion is our highest priority. I've already set up the accounts under the agreed code names. Nobody will trace it back unless you want them to."
"Good. I don't trust lawyers. I don't trust my own children, frankly."
"You can trust me."
There was a soft, wet sound. I imagined Nash dabbing his lips with a napkin or eating something off his plate. "Of course, there's the question of your compensation."
The target laughed like Nash had just said something absurd. "Let's just say, I like to be remembered by those I help. I'll make sure your grandkids have everything they need, and nobody's the wiser."
They moved to logistics. Dates, numbers, transfer points. A classic off-the-books fund diversion, legal as long as nobody cared to audit the details.
I logged it all mentally while Viper recorded the conversation on his end. I let my mind drift to tomorrow, to the second phase of the job. These conversations always led somewhere, always turned into lawsuit and ruin. My role was to make sure it ended on the Bureau's terms.
"I really appreciate you taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Nash," the target said with non-existing sincerity. "You're a legend in the business community. My father always spoke highly of your acumen."
Nash grunted, seemingly pleased. "Your father had good taste in investments. And you inherited the brains and not the mouth."
The target laughed, self-deprecating. "I try to keep a balance." There was the sound of glasses clinking.
The meeting ended with an arrangement for the first transfer. I waited ten minutes after they left before returning to the dining room. The bug came off clean, no evidence left behind. I was back in street clothes and out of the building in less than five.
I pinged Viper as soon as I got outside. "You get all that?"
"Every syllable. Holy shit, this guy is smooth. You want me to spin up a shell company and see if he bites?"
"Not yet," I said. "Let's let him run the first transfer. He'll get cocky. Then we see."
"You got it, boss." Viper always called me boss, even though he technically outranked me in the Bureau's weird hierarchy.
"By the way, just got word the target is scheduled for a mixer at the Wildhaven in Beverly Hills later this week. Lots of bigwigs."
I made a mental note. "What kind of bigwigs?"
"Investment whales. Entrepreneurs. Startups. The target's a mystery angel investor."
"Keep it on the agenda."
"Yup."
I hung up. The taste of the hunt lingered in my mouth. I wondered what the target's childhood was like. Did his father really tell stories about Nash? Or was it all part of the script? I decided it didn't matter. Nobody in this world ever told the truth unless you made them.
I started the Ducati and eased out onto the road, eyes already scanning for tails, for threats, for any sign of deviation from the expected pattern.
Tomorrow, the target would wake up thinking he owned the world. He'd feel invincible.
He'd have no idea I was coming for him.
And that was the point.
Client's money had already sealed his fate.