23 Seven
I was at the edge of the rooftop, watching the window across the street while the wind cut at my cheek. My Bureau issued burner was connected to my earpiece via a different channel.
I'd taken off my gloves for a second and the cold air made my knuckles ache, but that was nothing new. Below, cars blurred past in streaks of white and red. The city's noise rose and fell with the tides of the hour.
"Can you see what I'm doing right now?" she suddenly asked. Then she raised her left hand, slow and deliberate, and wiggled her fingers.
Her silhouette was framed by the pale glow of the table lamp behind her.
"Waving a hand," I said, feeling stupid.
"Which one?"
"The left one."
There was silence for a second, then a huff of breath. "You really are watching me. Not sure if that's creepy or comforting."
"Does it matter?" I said. But what I meant was Does it matter as long as you're safe?
She turned away from the window and took a few steps away from it, but the curtain remained open. Then she spun back into view and twirled, ponytail whipping behind her, free arm out.
"What am I doing now?" she asked.
I tracked her fluid movement, then the aftermath—the way her momentum carried her into the edge of the coffee table and made her wince.
"You're dancing," I supplied. "You might have a bruise on your ankle later."
She laughed a little. "That's generous. The dancing part, I mean. It's been years." She laughed again.
I had a strange desire to laugh with her, even though I wasn't sure what real laughing pertained. It was an emotion I wasn't familiar with. It didn't serve my purpose. I imitated it on the job when I needed to blend in, but only occasionally. "Coffee table okay?" I asked instead.
She looked behind her at the piece of furniture that she'd collided with seconds ago and nodded an affirmative. "Seems that way." Then she rubbed her ankle. "I'll need to put a mug on it to see if it holds up."
A car alarm wailed somewhere down the block, but cut off after two cycles.
Still, my eyes didn't leave the apartment window. I waited for her to move, to test me again, but instead she stood still for a long time, as if thinking over her next move. She grabbed her ponytail and curled the tip of it over her index finger.
I watched her do it, transfixed.
The city's cold seeped up through my clothes, through my boots and knees and spine, but I ignored it like I ignored everything else except the job.
Or was this even the job right now? There was a vibration at the base of my skull—always the readiness, the tension between here and now and what could be. I flexed my hands to keep them loose.
On the other end, she asked, "Why do you do this?"
I blinked, thrown by the question. "What?"
"This work. Tracking people, helping them, hurting them, whatever it is. Why?"
I exhaled, watching the small puff of steam break from my mouth. "It's what I'm good at."
"That's not a reason," she pressed, voice softer. "It's an excuse. Why not work in a bank, or teach, or—I don't know—fix motorcycles?"
I shifted, digging a heel of my boot into the roof floor. The question prickled, but not in a bad way. I found myself considering it, really considering, for the first time in a while. I also found myself wondering. Why, indeed?
"I don't know anything else," I admitted. "That's all I've been doing ever since I can remember."
Silence. Then, quietly, "You ever think about stopping? Does your family know about your work? Do they object?"
My hand squeezed the phone tight. "This is a family business."
She made a thoughtful sound. "So you were raised in it."
"I was," I said.
"Have you ever wanted to try something else?"
I didn't answer right away. Instead, I watched her move through the living room. She was pacing again, but she wasn't nervous. Her strides were measured as if she was out for a walk.
"No," I replied, knowing that I had already revealed too much. It was time to stop.
"So your parents do the same thing?"
"I don't remember them," I said. Again, too much.
She froze for a second, then moved out of frame again.
I found myself scanning the window, waiting for her to reappear. My pulse was suddenly strange, faster than normal, erratic, loud in my ears.
"Do you eve—" she started on the line, but my earpiece buzzed, telling me Viper was on another line. Frustration simmered just below my skin. I didn't like that we'd been interrupted but duty called.
"I have to go," I cut her off, ended the call, and switched the lines. "Operative Seven."
Viper's voice came in with a bit of static. "Hey, boss."
"What's going on?"
"I got something interesting on our last target."
"Go."
"I have a feeling you're gonna like it a lot," Viper added, sounding fucking giddy. "If we play our cards right, we can tank this guy in no time."
I didn't know if it mattered whether I liked the intel Viper had dug up or not.
Using information to handle targets was simply my occupation.
And if I was honest, it'd been the only thing that ever felt real in my life…until Kimberly Holt's clumsy dance I'd witnessed tonight.
Fuck.
This job wasn't going the way I intended. At all.