But the chill in my bones?
That doesn’t go anywhere.
What the hell just happened?
7
Anton
Morning – Diner off 95 & Charleston
Ipush the rubbery scrambled eggs around my plate, forcing myself to take another bite. Tastes like cardboard soaked in grease, but my body needs fuel. Haven’t eaten anything substantial in eighteen hours, and running on caffeine and adrenaline only works for so long before you start making mistakes.
And I can’t afford mistakes.
I’ve been camped in this corner booth for three hours now, back to the wall, eyes on both exits. The vinyl seat is cracked and held together with duct tape, but it gives me a clear view of the parking lot and anyone coming through that door. My Henleystill reeks of motel mildew and cheap detergent, but it’s better than the expensive suit that screams “target.”
The moody waitress behind the counter keeps shooting me looks like she’s deciding whether to serve more coffee or call security. In the end, she decides not to fuck with me. Smart woman.
I couldn’t sleep last night. Not with the bed frame from Room 237 knocking against the wall like a damn metronome, two strangers going at it like rabbits on meth. The moans. The thuds. The headboard slamming in a rhythm that reminded me of things I’m trying to forget.
I tried drowning it out with spreadsheets.
Boris’s latest drop: a raw dump of transaction patterns, shell accounts, and red-flag filings tied to Brightside National. At least one of Igor’s inner circle has been laundering money. Quietly. Consistently. Sloppily.
I had just flagged another round of suspicious deposits when my phone buzzed.
Unknown:Didn’t expect you this side of Vegas.
No name. Just that.
I stared at it for a long time.
I must’ve gotten sloppy. Either that, or Vegas air makes ghosts talk. No one’s supposed to know I’m here—not in this part oftown. If someone does, it means one of two things: I’ve got a leak. Or Ray Bishop still has better sources than the fucking CIA.
Blyat.
I don’t reply. But I’ve got a feeling. Only one man would send that message without a name and expect me to understand.
I pick up the cup in front of me and take a sip.
The coffee tastes like burned socks.
I push the mug away and glance toward the window. Neon flickers on the glass—“OPEN 24 HOURS”—like it’s hanging on by spite alone. The diner smells of grease, bleach, and cinnamon rolls no one’s ordered in three weeks.
But it’s quiet.
And for now, that’s enough.
I need somewhere to hole up. Quiet, disposable, off-grid. Four walls, no cameras, and silence that doesn’t sound like someone getting choked out or fucked half to death. The motel was supposed to be that. It failed.
I checked out of the motel, tossed the room key in the trash, didn’t look back.
My eyes drift to the black tactical duffel bag beside me on the seat. Unremarkable canvas exterior, reinforced zippers, no brand markings. Looks like something a gym rat wouldcarry, but the weight distribution tells a different story. Bottom compartment: disassembled Remington 700, scope, ammunition. Middle section: clothes, cash, three different sets of identification. Top: laptop, encrypted drives, and enough surveillance equipment to run a small operation.
Everything I own fits in that bag. Everything I need to disappear or eliminate a problem.
But right now, it just reminds me that I’m homeless.
