“We should me–” I paused, “We should meet and talk about this face to face. Man to man. You want the money and I want every image in your camera ro– matter of fact, I want the entire fucking camera.”
Taking a page from my book, the caller chuckled. His laughter awakened parts of me I promised to allow rest.
“Just like I know your future… I’m privy to your past. I’m not that stupid.”
“Gotsto be. You’re on my fucking line.”
My eyes bulged as my head nodded. He was contradicting himself.
You should fucking know better.
“Twenty-four hours, Mr. Mayor.”
I squeezed the cell in my hand. The chunk of titanium didn’t bend or break.
“Fuck!
The call ended, leaving me in the middle of my floor, steam emitting from my nose and ears. My teeth pressed into each other. The sun’s light did nothing to cure the darkness inside of me.
I pressed forward, bypassing the living room, the guest bedroom, the third restroom, and my office. I took the steps of my condominium to the first level. I went through the main kitchen, pulling the pantry door open. Behind the glass jar of granola, I pushed aside the small cut out to reveal the keypad.
842212.
Double doors parted the pantry in two. I step inside of the bunker. Revolvers of all kind welcomed me into the room. I wasn’t in search of them. Not yet, anyway.
On the desk, near the computers, I retrieved the flip phone. Beside it were six SIM cards, all unused but prepared for use. I slipped one into the back and laid the battery on top. Once the cover was back on, I powered the cell on.
Numbers. Numbers. Numbers.
One glance at a number…
One recital…
And, I’d never forget it.
Once in my head, I knew it backward and forward and then backward again. A number I knew by heart rolled off my fingertips. I pressed the phone to my ear and waited for the line to connect.
“Speak to me.”
Indigo answered on the first ring. I didn’t expect anything less. A soldier by default, there wasn’t a second of the day he wasn’t ready. Willing. Able.
I cleared my throat, trying to suppress the tension I was feeling.
“Got a call this morning.”
“Who I need to shoot? My trigger finger been itching all fucking night.”
“If I knew, I would be scratching my own finger.”
“A coward, huh?”
“At his finest.”
“What he talking about?”
“Pictures. Pictures that insinuate something that didn’t happen.”
“Like?”
