When it’s our turn, the teller’s eyes lift to us, waiting. Expectant. Not suspicious. Just ready to be told what to do.
Saint doesn’t pause. “Medium.”
I follow immediately. “Large.”
The words land like credentials.
The teller looks me up and down before turning away.Fabric appears on the counter, still warm from being stacked.
“They run a little small, baby.” She says to me, chewing a piece of gum that will likely be in her mouth all day.
Neutral jackets. Service shirts. Nothing with a name on it. Nothing that asks questions.
No ID or badge. No confirmation beyond the assumption that we wouldn’t be standing there if we didn’t belong.
I take note of it all.
The way systems rely on familiarity instead of verification. The way momentum replaces scrutiny. The way belonging is often just a matter of speaking first. It’s the exact level of relaxation that will be scrutinized once an assassination takes place today.
“No one ever looks at staff,” I murmur.
Saint doesn’t look at me. “Not even the staff.”
The locker room is crowded and loud, the kind of place where privacy is a suggestion at best. We don’t even consider the open benches. Weapons change the rules.
We split without comment, each taking a stall.
Fabric rustles. Boots scuff tile. I change fast, movements economical, aware of every sound on the other side of the thin divider. When I step back out, Saint is still inside. I wait, eyes on the door, on the exits, on the people who aren’t paying us any attention at all.
She emerges a moment later and crosses to a locker, opening it just wide enough to slide her backpack inside. She pushes it to the back, shuts the door, and spins the dial without flourish.
Then her gaze drops to the long black case in myhand.
She arches a brow. “You planning to balance that while passing caviar?”
I glance at the locker, then at the case. It doesn’t even pretend to belong.
“I’ll stash it,” I say.
We move out together, falling into step as the corridor opens up and the noise thins. The plan surfaces naturally, the way it always does when there’s motion to anchor it.
“I want eyes first,” I say. “We observe. See who circles Hartley. Who’s close without a reason. We don’t move until something moves.”
Saint is watching the flow of people, the way staff peel off toward kitchens and bars, the way security clusters without looking like clusters.
We pass an AV overflow room halfway down the hall, the door cracked open just enough to reveal stacked flight cases, coils of cable, a folding table pushed against the wall. Controlled chaos. Temporary. Unattended.
I slow without stopping. “Keep an eye out.”
She does, automatically, scanning the corridor as I slip inside. The case disappears into the stack with everything else that no one wants to inventory. Black on black. Identical. Invisible.
When I step back out, she’s already turned back toward me.
“This is wrong,” she says. “We should warn him.”
“No,” I reply. “We don’t tip the board unless we have to.”
“If we force movement, the assassin adjusts,” she counters. “That’s when they make mistakes.”
