It’s how he found me after X.C. and I were left for dead. We think X.C.’s was blown off of him in the explosion. His dot must have attached to one of the pylons after we were catapulted from the dock.
“Not yet, still early.”
“Why did it have to be this weekend?” Ian laments. He is busy. FIRE has four events happening across the Northern Hemisphere, which means our website and app are getting heavy volume. Ian and his team are working all weekend to make sure nothing crashes. And now Ian is staying even later to be remote support for this drop-off.
“I know. But Monique always comes through for us.”
Monique Yeats is one of the primary photographers FIRE hires for our marquee events. She is a premier photographer; her work focuses on extreme athletes and intense weather. She was easy to recruit for our clandestine cause. Monique has every excuse to go where she needs to with a camera and press credentials. She has every style of recording device.
Last weekend, she was in Buenos Aires covering a multi-day ultra-marathon. She told me she was able to photograph a potential exchange that happened adjacent to the course.
Frank Castillo, the head of tech giant Vallus, was running the race. As was known arms dealer Stasko Hynds. Hynds is part of the Order, and we believe Castillo is trying to prove his loyalty for an initiation. We’ve picked up chatter about a massive arms deal and a high-visibility target. If Monique caught anything on film, this could be a huge break.
“Still, a full week to sit on this? Why didn’t she send the images to you via encryption?” Ian asks the question that occurred to me earlier. Perhaps she doesn’t trust our digital communication after the issues we’ve been having these past few months.
“I’ll ask her when she arrives,” is all I feel comfortable saying on the phone. I can speculate with Ian when I’m back in the office. I hang up as the waiter approaches with my water.
“She is running late?” he asks.
“You know how it is,” is all I say before he walks away. I take in my surroundings. Most people around me are in groups, moving through the night together. I spot a man across the street on his cell phone, leaning against a tree. I turn my head slightly to see behind me. The bar is filling up.
Toward the back, my waiter is speaking with someone. Could be the restauranteur.Or.Is this one of the Order’s new agents?
Monique is never late.
If she has the photos she claimed to when she communicated with me earlier in the week, then two incredibly powerful groups would be after her. And could be after me as well. Arms dealers don’t stay in business by playing nice. Frank Castillo didn’t become the youngest self-made billionaire without burying a few secrets. Rumors have it some bodies have been buried too.
The waiter turns and heads my way.
I have some choices. I can assume he is coming out to ask about appetizers while I wait. I can assume Monique is running behind. In traffic. Nothing harmful.
Or I can speculate that she has been caught. That the Order is on to her and has taken her captive, or worse. That Stasko Hynds and his ilk have captured her. That someone is about to intercept me as well.
Sometimes it feels like X.C. is still here. Like I could just call him up and get his take on things. Like he is giving me advice from wherever he is. Maybe it is my instinct that is telling me to make a quick exit, or maybe it’s his voice in my head.
Whatever it is, my gut says something is wrong.
For a split second, I think back to when I locked Charlie outside in the heat. Her sweet smile and pleading expression. One I should have found convincing. My gut said not to trust her, and it seems I was wrong. Maybe my gut is wrong now.
“No,” I whisper and shake my head. Somethingisoff and I don’t intend to stick around and find out the extent of it.
I pull out my wallet and drop a generous tip on the table. An apology for wasting the waiter’s time. Just in case he isn’t about to apprehend me. Just in case he wasn’t speaking with someone from the Order.
I stride through the terrace gate and walk down the sidewalk, passing people heading out for a fun evening. I spot my rental car and keep going past it. Whoever delayed Monique could very well be trying to come and get me too. I can’t risk it. I palm my phone and type out a message to Ian.
Declan Davidson
BURN.
Once it sends, I break it apart with my hands. Sliding out the battery and cracking the screen. I put the international SIM card in my left pocket. From my right, I grab a small detonator and throw the remnants of my phone with it into a metal trash can.
The voices of passersby swirl around me, English and Spanish dancing in the air, rising past the beautiful murals and terrace plants into the night sky. The explosion of the trash can, now a good twenty paces behind me, silences them before they call out for help.
Where is Monique? Has she been harmed? Or worse? I shake that thought away.No, I don’t want to believe it.
But the Order has already demonstrated that they are willing to kill. They took out X.C. and presumed I’d drowned too. The image haunts my dreams. The memory taunts me and my once precious trust.
They have no regard for life. The members of the Order are all multibillionaires. When you have nine billion dollars and there are nearly nine billion people on the planet, you stop caring about them. They value each person’s life at less than a dollar; it’s not worth their time to worry over when their business development plans eradicate a village or kill people. They don’t bother to bend down to pick up a dollar. They don’t sweat destroying a life.
