ZARA
Chance is a fickle thing, a method of choice used only by fools and the seed of regret when not taken. I’m not sure where I stand on it.
Is it best to let the chips fall where they may or hold a gun to the dealer’s head? The former is the greater win, but the latter is a better bet. Maybe that’s not the best example.
If I put a bullet in the chamber of a six-shot revolver and spin my luck, I have five shots at living and only one to die.
But in the end, none of it matters if I get the bullet. The probability formula was useless. All opportunities perished with my no-longer-beating heart.
Of course, if there are millions of dollars at stake or the prize of a new life waiting in the wings, five-to-one odds aren’t bad. Probably worth the risk.
Perhaps I do know where I stand on it. I spin the chamber daily.
Sliding into the passenger seat and shutting the door, I warm my hands in front of the heater. It’s late September, but the crisp air feels like the tundra. I don’t even know what state I’m in, butI need to find out so I can avoid jobs here in the future unless they occur during the summer months.
“Nice getup. So … wholesome,” Tripp drawls, flicking my Sunday-best hat as he drives to the destination. “The platinum blonde works too.”
“I was told there’d be mimosas.” My playful smile sobers to stone. “Save the flattery since I’m already here to clean up your mess. In the Arctic.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’d think you’d be unfazed by mildly low temps at this point since our home isactuallyin the Arctic.”
“And there’s your answer as to why I travel most of the year. Try to pick a better destination next time, will ya?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for toughing it out for me. This has been one headache after another.” He thrusts a file at me to flip through while he speeds ahead and fills me in. “Ladies’ brunch upstairs. Club below. Seventeen men are expected to be present. The four you’re looking at are in a private room. Two guards at the entrance. Primary target is this guy.” He taps a photo of a stout man in his mid-fifties, a face full of pockmarks and a scowl ripe with vile secrets. “He has a blue silk handkerchief in his suit jacket pocket and the phone with all the contacts. But all six men are disposable.”
Having committed their faces to memory, I do a final perusal of the building layout, shut the file, and smooth out my floral skirt. “Weapon?”
He checks his surroundings and pulls up to a curb, not too far from the restaurant. “The hostess will direct you, and a server will deliver instructions.”
“Am I showing the guards leniency?”
“No,” he grunts. “They’re heavily involved.”
Opening the passenger door, I scan the street. It’s quaint. History shrouding the buildings. Brick shaping the roads. Blue skies hug the mountains in the distance. Sidewalks and endlesswindow shopping extend an invitation. It’s a cozy snapshot of postcard perfection and the ideal backdrop for a Hallmark movie. Or a thriller.
I inhale the fresh air, rise like a lady, and bend down for one more inquiry. “Pickup?”
“Alleyway.” He glances at his watch, green eyes similar to mine darting up to me. “Seven minutes.”
I hustle toward the white-brick building at an I’m-late-to-meet-my-girls pace and not a stride faster, jaunting up the stairs with well-bred elegance. Years of finishing school allow me to blend in anywhere. Etiquette is a lost art.
The hostess beams when I stroll inside. “They’ve been expecting you. The ladies are in the back. Right this way.”
She grabs a menu, walking through the crowded restaurant, filled with an after-church crowd, and dipping into a reserved area, currently occupied by a giddy women’s group. The din of gossip melds with soft rock piped through the speakers. The hostess saunters away, and a server passes by with a tray of mimosas, lowering it before me. She hands me one with a small piece of paper wrapped around the stem.
“Restroom?” I sip the cocktail and survey the patrons.
“They’re all full.” She jerks her chin to an area behind me. “But there’s a unisex one around the corner, part of the employee changing room. Feel free to use it.”
With my mimosa in hand, I amble to the restroom, but another lady, who must have overheard the server, tries to sneak inside.
Mid-forties. Pearls but rough nails and bags under her eyes—hardworking. A huge purse—maternal. A bottle of D-mannose inside it—prone to urinary tract infections.
I slather on my best small-town charm, aware she’s going to wonder who I am and may even want to camp out in there and get to know me. I’m confident it will never get to that. “Wouldyou mind terribly letting me go ahead of you?” When she appears apprehensive, I tack on, “This is so embarrassing, but I have a horrible UTI. I might be in there for a while. That’s why she offered—”
With her palm on her chest, she backs away. “Oh, say no more, dear.”
I lock the door, shut myself inside the only stall, and read the single word written on the small sheet of paper.
