“I am accustomed to more panache,” I reply. “Dashing woman in a suit crashing through my expensive skylights, scaring a few years off the lives of a bunch of obsequious drunkards.”
Theia laughs, gently and genuinely, and shoves her hands in her pockets. I try to smother my surprise with a returning smile. “I’m afraid the logistics of rebellion are not quite as exciting as that. Now, once you infiltrate the mansion and eliminate the target, exit the same way you entered. Helios will be waiting in the alleyway for you with transport. If you go over the allotted time, he will wait for you at rendezvous point B. Should that happen, you will have around eight to ten blocks of combatants to fight through. Any questions?”
Taylor sucks in a deep breath and nods her head. “Is he anticipating me?”
“De La Rosa and her operatives have planted information about the next target being Reed, so I imagine security will be thorough, but not more than we accounted for.” A knock on the door interrupts the room. Theia grumbles in disapproval and the map disappears. “Come in.”
A young man walks in and nods deferentially. “Ma’am, there is a messenger here for you from the Southeast. He passed security clearance but we did not want to bring him inside.”
“Quite right. We have had enough strangers in here.” Theia brushes the front of her skirt. “Very well. Eos, I’ll give you a few minutes to study the plans. You are to leave tonight at twenty sharp. Good luck, everyone. I look forward to seeing you all again soon.” She squeezes Taylor’s shoulder before striding out of the room with the soldier and closing the door behind her.
In my typical busybody fashion, I shuffle to the desk and give it an inspection. Like Taylor’s place, there’s no personal touch in here. No photos of a spouse, no family, not even a fish. Nothing to give it personality. There’s a cup containing pens, a stack ofpapers neatly filed to the side, a mini laptop, and a carafe of scotch with two tumblers. I try one of the desk drawers, but they’re locked. Typical.
“Is this what you did before you got to my place?” I ask, peering over at Taylor.
“Yes. The guest list of the party, the names of everyone working for him. How many COs to expect, how many Force members. Drinking habits.”
The lingering homesickness I’ve been nursing has waned, but I find myself asking her, “Can you show me?”
“The file on Leader Piccolo?”
“Yes.”
What aspects of someone’s life are important in planning their death? Reducing a life of color to black and white, to ones and zeros, to impersonal data. Also, if there’s information on me, I deserve to see the breadth of it. In this game of survival, I’m playing at a distinct disadvantage, and that’s no way to win.
Taylor manipulates the keypad and Papa’s picture appears in thin air, accompanied by a holographic file card.Luciano Genaro Piccolo.A man who, to me, is larger than life, whittled down until he’s shockingly ordinary. Widower. Impulsive. The file hosts a load of information on his personality, his likes and dislikes. Candid photos of him. I resist the urge to reach out and touch the holographic image. My eyes drop to my name. Taylor wordlessly presses another button and a file card on me pops up.
My life in statistics: name, birthday, height, and weight. Places I go, music I listen to. My favorite color, a short dissertation on my relationship with my father, my mother, some acquaintances, even Derek. “You stalked Derek?”
“Who?” Taylor squints at the file. “Oh, your pilot boyfriend. I gathered information on him, yes. Like I said, extensive intelligence is key. The ball was the perfect opportunity for infiltration, but it also meant I may have had to talk my wayinto a private audience with Leader Piccolo. I needed to sound convincing and familiar. That is not my area of expertise. The…talking.”
I don’t recall her having a hard time talking to me. Maybe I’m easier to talk to. Maybe I’m an easier mark. Either way, here I am, and there’s something else that needs addressing. “Derek is not my boyfriend.”
Taylor’s eyebrows rise to new heights. “Oh.”
It’s impressive how much judgment and confusion she crammed into one syllable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I guess my intel was—” She pauses and searches the air for a word. “Wrong?”
“What part of your intel suggested we were dating?”
“You spent several hours inside his apartment at varying times of the day and night, often emerging in different clothes than when you entered,” she replies. “I extrapolated.”
“You assumed. Not that it matters, but Derek is just my friend.”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times. “But you two had?—”
“Yes.”
“But he is not?—”
“No.”
“Oh.”
As Taylor puzzles through this information like it’s advanced physics, with an adorably furrowed brow, I swipe through the rather startling wealth of intelligence on me. My eyebrow climbs. “Knowing my favorite color is cyan is pertinent?” I bite my lip again to pretend I’m suppressing a grin. I’m not. I’m not even trying. “You are my stalker. How precious.”
“I am not a stalker.” Taylor gapes and crosses her arms. “And certainly notyourstalker. This is my job, Miss Piccolo.” She slaps the cover down on the buttons and forces the file to dissipate. “My duty is not only taking out leaders, it’s aboutunderstanding the complexion of the country so it can be led democratically. You are part of that complexion.”
