"Taken care of." He said it like he was discussing the weather.
"Other questions?"
"No."
"Good." He settled back in his seat, eyes forward. "I wait here. You have twenty minutes. After that, I come in. Don't make me come in."
I got out of the car.
The night air was cold—October in New York, that first real bite of winter coming. I pulled my hood up, shoved my hands in my jacket pockets, the black bag slung over my shoulder.
Walked the two blocks like I belonged there. Just another guy heading home. Nothing to see.
The doorman was still at his post when I passed the first time—older guy, reading something on his phone. I kept walking, circled the block.
12:03 AM.
He left. Got into a car parked at the corner and drove away.
Shift change. No replacement coming.
Now.
I walked to the side alley—narrow gap between the brownstones, barely wide enough for one person. Garbage cans. A cat that hissed and ran when I approached.
The fire escape was old iron, bolted to the brick. I tested the first rung. Solid. Climbed.
My ribs screamed where the guards had kicked me days ago—still bruised, still tender. Every pull-up sent lightning through my chest. I gritted my teeth and kept climbing.
Second floor. Bathroom window.
Frosted glass, slightly ajar. Handler was right.
I pushed it open slowly. No alarm. No sound except the distant murmur of a TV from downstairs.
I pulled myself through.
The bathroom was dark—marble tile, expensive fixtures, the kind of room that cost more than most people's cars. I stood still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust, listening.
TV downstairs. Faint. Late-night news or a movie.
I pulled on the gloves. The balaclava stayed in my pocket—only if absolutely necessary. Less suspicious if someone saw me and I looked human.
Moved into the hallway.
Hardwood floors. I stepped carefully—heel to toe, weight distributed, the way Marcus and I used to sneak through our group home after curfew. Muscle memory from another life.
Stairs to my right. Light coming from below.
I descended slowly.
Living room at the bottom. Leather furniture. Expensive art on the walls. TV mounted above a fireplace.
And there he was.
The target.
Sitting in a wingback chair, bathrobe open over pajamas, glass of scotch in one hand, phone in the other. Scrolling. The TV played something he wasn't watching.
