My reflection in the glass is a vague shape. Hood up. Jaw tight. Eyes that'd rather be anywhere but here.
Whitcomb. Donovan Castiel and his shiny new pipeline to Mississippi. Another predator circling my state, convinced he's untouchable. New partner. New playground. Same disease.
The upload hits one hundred percent, and the laptop lets out a soft chime. Local encryption done. The secure drop will verify on the other end.
I don't socialize mid-operation. I don't bring strangers into my orbit when my name is still warm on someone else's servers. Rules keep things clean. Clean keeps people alive.
The job is done, and the cage is open.
Stillness feels wrong after an operation. It carries the weight of the hit that always follows. I roll my neck until it cracks, then push away from the desk.
Adrenaline is a live wire under my skin, and I need movement to burn it out before it burns me. Since the hotel bar is open late, that's where I head. It sits off to the left, pretending to be upscale with dim overheads. Polished wood still showing its dents. Lighting the color of old pennies.
The stool at the far end has the best sightline: entrance, bathroom corridor, emergency exit. Taking it all in is a habit. The mirror behind the bar gives me a second angle on everything.
Which is how I see her.
She's parked at the opposite end, angled half away from the room but not the door. A martini glass sits untouched in front of her, the liquid throwing Ghostbuster green from a backlit bottle.
She's dressed to disappear. Dark jeans, black boots, a gray sweater too soft for this place.
But she doesn't disappear. Not to me.
Hair a little too wild for the forgettable outfit. Long, dark, wavy, pulled over one shoulder, away from her neck. Someone taught her to scan doors and exits. She never unlearned the lesson.
Her scan isn't fear. She's already decided what to do if the room turns.
It’s the same predatory stillness I carry in the field, wrapped in different skin.
The bartender wanders over, dragging a rag that's seen better decades. He sets a short glass in front of me. Amber. Neat.
Fine. Let him play.
I'm not here for the drink. My brain doesn't know how to power down without a target. Right now, she sits ten yards away making the whole room look cheap by comparison.
She shifts on the stool, sweater riding up to flash skin at her waist. Heat kicks under my ribs.
When my eyes lift, she feels it.
She turns her head, not all the way. One eye catches mine in the mirror. Her gaze is tired and a little wild at the edges. Cornered. Deciding whether to bite or bolt.
My hand stiffens on the glass.
Then a pack of suits stumbles in, laughing too loudly, reeking of cologne and entitlement. They crowd the space between us, blocking half my sightline with their overeager shoulders and bad jokes.
I don't like losing angles.
One stool down. Then another. Until the view clears and I'm closer. The distance down to a few empty seats and a stretch of polished wood.
Close enough to feel the tension rolling off her.
Her hand closes on the stem of the martini glass. It shakes once and a bead of condensation slides over her knuckles. She doesn't lift the drink.
The rye goes down rough.
She glances my way. A slide of eyes, up and down, cataloging. If I were anyone else, I might believe she was indifferent.
But her shoulders lock mid-exhale when our gazes catch. The air between us goes tight. I hold it a second longer than necessary.
