32 Seven
The roof was still damp from a late afternoon rain, and the chill crept up through the concrete until it settled in the bones of my ankles.
My left foot was asleep, but I didn't move it.
Didn't dare break the silhouette I'd assumed in the shadow between two battered HVAC units.
This was the perfect line of sight across the alley to the glass-walled penthouse that belonged to the last target.
From here, I could watch the target at work, at rest, at war with himself, if he was the type.
I dialed the monocular scope until the figure pacing the living room came into focus—Caius Valmont himself, restless as always, shirt sleeves rolled up, glass of something neat in his left hand.
His phone was glued to his ear, mouth tight as a fist.
Viper's voice was in my left ear, low and needling. "How's our target today, boss?"
"He's alone."
A little stutter of keyboard clacks on Viper's end. "Probably getting the silent treatment again."
"Were you able to confirm if the wife knows about his late-night hobbies?"
"Not yet. You're hoping she doesn't?"
"That would be extra insurance."
He was silent for a few minutes while I continued to watch the target.
Asshole was careful not to leave any traces of his indiscretions.
He was hard to crack. Hard to get on the hook.
And proactive. And that riled me up, which was a brand-new feeling.
I didn't like it, but I'd promised Kimmy to take care of Valmont.
Fuck.
I caught myself on the thought that somehow I'd started using their names. These people weren't faceless jobs anymore. They were real, and that frustrated me even more.
Besides, this was careless and dangerous. So far, I'd been doing this in my head, but if it ever spilled into my communication with Viper or anyone else and someone smart enough would intercept it, the Bureau would crumble like a house of cards.
Get your shit together, Seven.
The redhead was my only hope to get to the third target quick, but I needed to approach her elsewhere. The apartment complex had been compromised.
Viper cleared his throat. "You there, boss?"
"Yes."
"I did more digging on those motherfuckers that are on your ass."
"Bale Security?"
"They're more serious than I thought."
"How serious?"
"High-end. Most ex-mil, some ex-Agency. They don't play for trophies, they play for keeps. You got lucky with the lobby slugger."
"Didn't feel like luck," I said. My abdomen stung as I shifted my weight. The healing cut under my ribs tightened. The compound doc praised my stapler job when I'd returned from Kimmy's. He'd given me a week's worth of antibiotics and said I could have been a surgeon in another life.
"You get that checked regularly?" Viper asked as if he'd just read my mind.
"Doc looked at it. Said it was fine."
"Fuck, boss, you know how many weird bugs you can get from a dirty knife?"
"Stop mothering me."
He let it go. "Anyway, I traced Bale's contract work. Your friend Valmont has been their biggest client the last three years. They do more for him than they do for anyone else."
"Piece of shit is cleaning up after himself to prepare for his political stage."
"Ditto."
"Be careful, Seven."
"Can you forward me all the info on Bale Security?"
"Already sending."
"Thanks. Talk later."
I disconnected and watched the target pace, asking myself why I'd just thanked Viper. He was doing his job. We didn't really thank each other. Ever.
The city bled out below, all glass and smears of neon, the skyline pulsing like an arrhythmic heartbeat. In the penthouse, Valmont took a seat at the table, poured more from the decanter, and continued with his call.
The burner phone in my pocket vibrated. Not the regular Bureau line. The spare that connected me to the one I'd given Kimmy.
I thumbed it open and answered without thinking. "Hey."
The word just hung there. Not the standard question but a human greeting. Like we were buddies or something.
"Seven?" Her voice sounded ragged at the edges. "Can you talk?"
I kept the scope trained on Valmont's head, but my pulse shifted, an extra spike for every syllable she spoke. "Yes."
She exhaled, shaky. "I need to ask for a favor…" Pause. "I'll pay if it's necessary."
I took a moment to process. Then realized I didn't really care about the money. "What is it?" I asked.
"It's my mom. She's in a bind."
"I'm listening."
"She was in a car accident," Kimmy explained, the words coming fast.
"Is she okay?"
"It was minor. She has a scratch is all.
Nobody else was hurt. But the insurance is refusing to pay.
They say the policy lapsed even though she never missed a payment.
The police treated her like a criminal. Breathalyzed her twice, made her sign something she couldn't read without her glasses.
Refused to let me take her to see a doctor.
They didn't even call an ambulance at the scene.
" Another pause. "She says the other driver hit the brakes on purpose.
Like it was staged. She didn't even have time to react.
And now… now the police are saying she was intoxicated, which is impossible. "
"Why impossible?"
"My mother doesn't drink," she snapped. "And medication she takes is cleared by the doctor. It's not a maybe. I lived with her. I know her."
"What do you want from me?"
Kimmy's voice softened, almost pleading. "I have a feeling someone set her up. I also have proof from her bank statement that we paid for the policy. I don't know why the insurance company is saying they never received the payment. It's all very fishy."
I didn't reply right away. The answer I was supposed to give her was on the tip of my tongue. But I hesitated. I didn't want to hear her disappointment.
She filled the silence. "She's terrified, Seven.
She keeps calling me and crying about how she's going to lose the house, the car, everything.
Just to cover the damages. It's not even about the money.
Even though she doesn't want to bother my foster siblings, we can cover the expenses.
I just don't want to get them involved yet.
I have a strange feeling about this. The other driver is threatening to take her to court.
We received the letter from his attorney a few days after the incident.
Aren't those things that take weeks if not months? "
From what I'd just heard, it did sound strange.
"Get me all the information, the documents, the statements, photos if you have them.
Copy of the letter from the attorney." Why the fuck are you doing this?
Why are you helping her? It's not even within your scope of expertise.
"Send them to this number using the link I'll forward you in a second.
Don't talk to anyone about this. Especially your siblings. "
"I know. I won't."
"We'll get to the bottom of it." This was the wrong thing to say. Against the protocol. But I hadn't cared about the Bureau’s rules for a while. Probably since the moment I saw her in the hallway, pinned to the wall by the first target.
She exhaled. "Thank you." Then a second of hesitation. "How's your… How are you? Is the wound getting better?"
"Yes," I said, sending her a secure transfer link via text.
"You're a terrible liar."
"So are you," I blurted out. Why did I do that? Maybe to hear the spike in her voice as she argued back. Or maybe to continue this conversation. I had no fucking clue.
"Oh, I just got the link. I'll upload everything in a second."
"Hey…are you liking your new couch?" Fuck. Letting her go was harder than I thought.
"Yes. Thank you. And for the carpet. You really didn't have to do that."
"Well, you had my DNA all over your place. I don't like taking risks."
"Right," she drawled, sounding a little better now, less stressed. "You think I'm going to try and find out your real identity by doing some genetic testing in my kitchen."
I felt my lips spread into a smile. Oh, no. I clamped my mouth shut. She was doing funny things to my mind and body.
"Anyway, I'm not going to hold you up. Thanks again. Bye."
She hung up before I could answer, which was strange. Usually, I ended the calls first. I felt empty on the inside as if a favorite high-end tech gadget had just been confiscated from me.
I waited, breath tight, then turned my attention back to the scope.
Valmont was still at the window, still sipping his drink, eyes scanning the city below. He didn't know it, but for the first time in a while, he was only my second priority.
The spare burner buzzed. I looked at the files sent by Kimmy—bank statements, the policy notice, a blurry shot of the accident scene, police reports.
I memorized every detail.
Then I clicked back to the earpiece. "Viper. Need a bit of help."
He was ready, always. "Go."
"I'm sending you some files. Check every chain—from the bank, the insurer, the cops, the other driver. Quietly. Look for the hand that pulled the string."
"Sure thing, boss."
"Do it fast. And off the record."
He made a sound. "Off the record?"
"Please?" I was surprised at myself for saying this. "Well, as much off the record as possible." With the Bureau spying on its employees at all hours of the day.
Viper was surprised too, apparently. He snorted. "You're not joking, are you?"
"I'm not. It's still part of the ongoing job, but I just don't want it to spread."
"Understood, boss."
I closed the line. My attention snapped back to the window. I had a hunch the man behind the glass was involved. I needed proof. And I was going to get it one way or another.
For Kimmy.