Mr. Tweed stood, sliding his phone into his pants pocket. He brushed the dust from his ass and buttoned a single button of his coat as he turned around. Maybe Holden imagined it, but from this distance, Mr. Tweed’s expression looked furtive.
He trailed Mr. Tweed away from the parking lot. This area of campus was afflicted with menacing gray slabs of buildings. The scrubby trees only accentuated the harsh architecture. Mr. Tweed seemed familiar with the area. No pausing at the visitor’s map, no stopping to read building names.
No avoiding surveillance. They passed camera after camera. James would be able to easily trace their route later, if Darius hadn’t gotten him on the job already.
Holden resisted the urge to wave at the cameras.
As they approached the linguistics building, Holden started to feel a little stupid. Maybe thiswasjust a linguistics professor he hadn’t seen before. Or some guest lecturer from a climate where a full tweed suit made slightly more sense.
Except Mr. Tweed’s pace slowed. He glanced around every once in a while. Which was encouraging on the ‘validating Holden’s instincts’ front.
Also encouraging, if by encouraging one meant sketchy as fuck, Mr. Tweed didn’t enter the linguistics building’s columnedfront door. He looped around the building and disappeared into the shadows beneath a hulking outdoor staircase.
Out of view of the cameras.
Holden hesitated a safe distance away, pretending again to fiddle with his phone. He could make out Mr. Tweed’s shape beneath the staircase, because the shadows weren’t that dark. But it was too far away to see him well, and Holden couldn’t approach without being seen himself.
Curiosity pinned Holden in place. He should leave, but part of him wanted to follow the man into the shadows. The adrenaline-spiking, bloodthirsty, impulsive part of him.
This was the sort of situation Holden avoided. An unknown opponent in an unknown location, a spur-of-the-moment attack. Holden needed to be in control, so he could survive to kill again.
The sort of situation he avoided because he craved it.
But fiddling with his phone meant scrolling up and down his conversations with Kit. And he could hear Kit’s voice clearly saying, “Don’t call Mr. Tweed a target yet.”
And, “Holden, don’t do anything stupid.”
Holden needed to be in control. But sometimes his self-discipline fractured. Moments like these, it was nice to have another voice in his head, yanking his leash.
Rather than a deranged, impulsive murderer, Holden channeled his best thoughtful, sensible stalker. He opened his camera app and zoomed in.
The image was blurry and gray, but legible enough. Mr. Tweed leaned against the concrete wall, his jacket spread open again. One hand held his phone up in front of his face. The other hand was in his pocket.
No. Not his pocket.
Holden blinked, stunned out of his cold bloodthirst. Mr. Tweed’s arm jerked unmistakably, his hand shoved down the front of his tweed trousers.
The bastard was masturbating.
Holden stared until a new text from the group chat dropped on top of the screen.
Darius:Update? You stopped moving.
Jolting into motion, Holden swerved towards the next parking lot. He typed as he walked.
Holden:false alarm. but in my defense, dude WAS sketchy
James checked the camera feeds again. Nothing was out of place. While not every angle was covered, the mapping was better than James could have hoped. Dozens of views of a sleepy suburban neighborhood.
People had no idea what their cute little door cameras could be used for.
Not that the neighbors had anything to worry about. James only had one target today, and she deserved it.
“You all right?” Bishop asked. He stood near the motel room window, at an angle where he could see the parking lot without being spotted.
James lounged on a bed, the poor-quality sheets itching through his clothes. On a weird, twisted level, he welcomed the discomfort. He didn’t want to be comfortable, complacent, forgetful, until the job was done.
He didn’t have a safehouse in this town, or many contacts. None he could trust to work solely for him, not the highest bidder. James might be almost as arrogant as he was rich, but he knew there were players in the game who could outbid him. They had to do this the slow, old-fashioned way. Rent a motel room. Stay the night. Get ready to grab their victim and run when the time was right.
