Cat and Mouse
Zane
She sent me to the wrong diner.Smart girl.
I'm sitting at Rosita's at 11:45 PM, black coffee cooling in front of me, when her text comes through. My body's already on high alert—heart rate jacked, that copper taste of adrenaline, hands actually fucking shaking like I'm some virgin at prom instead of someone who's broken bones for less than this.
Angel:Wrong place, Diablo.
This is where you said.
Angel:Was. Now it's Murphy's. Two blocks east.
I should be pissed. Instead, I'm impressed. And harder than I should be from a redirect text. She's testing me, making sure I'm not some psycho who'll rage about changed plans. Making sure I can follow directions. Making sure I'm worth the risk she's taking.
Because she is risking something. The way she delayed a week, canceled twice, the careful paranoia—this isn't just meeting a stranger. This is betrayal of some kind. I can smell it on her even through text.
Nice try, Angel.
Angel:Had to know if you were dangerous.
I am dangerous. Just not to you.
Angel:That's what they all say before the documentary.
Fair point. Murphy's. I'll be there in 10.
Angel:I'm already there.
Of course she is. Probably watching from her car, escape route mapped, someone on standby. Good. In this city, careful keeps you breathing. Especially when you're crossing lines you shouldn't cross.
I throw cash on the table and head for my bike, ignoring the waitress's obvious relief that I'm leaving. Murphy's is close enough to walk, but the bike gives me options. Always have exits. First rule of survival when you wear Iron Talons colors.
Murphy's is exactly what I expected—harsh fluorescents fighting a losing battle with burnt-out bulbs, cracked vinyl booths that have seen better decades, the smell of grease and broken dreams. Safe. Public. Witnesses everywhere.
I don't see anyone in red.
I'm here. Where are you?
Angel:Not inside.
Angel.
Angel:Security cameras. I'm watching through the app.
Bullshit. No way she has access to Murphy's security system. But she can see me somehow—probably parked where she has sight lines through the window. Clever girl playing technical genius. I'll play along.
What am I wearing?
Angel:Black leather jacket that's seen some fights. Dark jeans. Boots that have definitely kicked indoors. Sitting in the corner booth like you're waiting for someone to try something.
She can definitely see me. The detail about my boots is too specific—there's still blood in the creases from last week's collection.
This feels like a test.
Angel:Everything's a test. You're passing.
What do I win?
