Chuckling, Angela waited until everyone’s single was in her hand. Then, she stuffed the money into the front pocket of her laptop case. “Okay then, we’re all set—and fully protected.”
With a lingering grin, Casey opened the front door. “Let’s hit the road.”
Mickey’s Tavern
101 Guinness Way
Boston, Massachusetts
Friday, March 17, 3:56 p.m.
Angela walked the half block from the parking garage where she’d left her car, down Guinness Way, and to her destination. Rather than her customary upscale attire, she was dressed to fit into the crowd, wearing jeans and a cable-knit sweater, with a down jacket on top to keep out the winter cold. And no fast-paced Manhattan stride; just a casual step.
There were a fair number of people—mostly under twenty-five—strolling along the sidewalk, but not nearly as many as would show up later, when the masses of college kids descended to party hearty. That was fine. She’d be long gone and eating dinner with her sister by then.
Slinging her laptop bag higher on her shoulder, she approached the brick building with the tall windows and the wood shingle hanging overhead with an illuminated sign that read “Mickey’s.” She paused two buildings away, subtly scanning the area to see if any law enforcement was hanging around, and also to make sure there were enough people near the bar to hide her from view, but not so many as to make her stand out.
All good. She could even see the requisite trash can—now a decorative piece of pottery with flowers lining the rim.
She stifled her grin, along with the urge to stop directly in front of the bar and take a photo for Ryan. Definitely not the dumpster he’d remembered.
Sensing the minutes pass, she wriggled the sleeve of her jacket high up enough so she could check her Apple Watch. Three fifty-nine. She waited patiently until the numbers moved to four-zero-zero.
Then she moved.
She unzipped her bag as she walked, easing the black bubble mailing envelope out and into her hand. Never slowing or stopping, she walked past the tavern, letting the package drop into the trash can and continuing on her way. She paused once—at the street corner—to see if there was any sign she’d been noticed.
Everything continued to unfold as it had been, without a single pair of eyes looking her way.
Job successfully completed.
She couldn’t help herself. She took out her cell phone, pretending to scan her email like everyone else was doing. Subtly, she aimed her phone and took a quick photo of the trash can.
She’d send it to Ryan when she got back to her car.
JFK Airport
Queens, New York
Friday, March 17, 4:10 p.m.
Ryan had been intently studying the computerized flight schedule on the wall in front of him for the past ten minutes—ever since he’d dropped his parcel into a nearby trash can. Now, he turned, brow furrowed as if contemplating where he’d be flying to next. But not today. Today he was ready to go collect his Corvette and head back to the FI brownstone.
The trill of an arriving text message sounded.
Praying that there’d been no problems, he pulled out his cell and opened the message as he walked:
A souvenir of the modern-day version of your oldie but goodie. Very classy. Now very full.
See you tomorrow.
Eyeing the photo, Ryan threw back his head and laughed.
Mickey’s Tavern
101 Guinness Way
Boston, Massachusetts
