I was pacing, phone wedged against my ear. "I'm an introvert," I lied. "I needed something that suited me better, which is Lark & Lark."
She exhaled, hard. "I need you, Kimmy. It's one night. Just schmooze. Talk up our brand. Drink a club soda and leave before 10 PM. Please."
My brain whirled. The idea of a crowded room, of handshakes and eye contact, made my skin want to jump off my bones. I tried to think of a way out. "I could do the follow-up emails, or?—"
"Kimmy, I have no one else. If we don't secure an investor, the next six months will be very tough. I won't be able to give you guys a raise. Or worse."
I bit my tongue. Geneva was good at this, at making you feel like the only person in the world who could save her and her tiny company. I didn't care about a raise. I was very good at being frugal now, but there were others. And I guess the idea of my coworkers suffering because of my cowardice did the job.
"All right," I said. "I'll do it. But this will be the only time."
She made a sound that was half-relief, half-sob. "Thank you. I owe you, big time. I promise you won't regret it."
"I expect you to buy me a lifetime supply of cheese," I said, trying to make it a joke, but my voice didn't get there.
"Deal," Geneva replied. "I'll text you the details. Dress code is cocktail. You got this, Kimmy. You'rethe best."
"Yeah," I said, already regretting agreeing.
When the call ended, I just stood there, breathing heavily. The room was silent except for the soft hiss of my air purifier. I looked down at the burner phone, still dead. Then at my regular phone. A new notification popped up on the screen.
It was a money transfer from Geneva and the memo.
For a killer outfit—treat yourself.
4 seven
"Isn't the stakeout phase the worst?" Viper's voice crackled through my earpiece as I sat on my bike.
I'd never met the guy, but I knew the voice well. It was chipper with a trace of midwestern accent, friendly enough to make you think of endless gray highways, cornfields, and chain restaurants with tiled floors. He was a chatty fella, always ready to crack some dumb joke. They weren't funny, but I tolerated them because Viper's main skills were incomparable. He could find a needle in a haystack of any size.
"Anything noteworthy on the target?" I asked.
"Still searching," Viper replied. "Hang in there, Seven." He was humming some tune in the background and it was distracting.
"Viper, I swear if you start singing another Lady Gaga song, I'm cutting the feed," I muttered under my breath.
"Oh, you know you love it, buddy," he replied with what sounded like a giggle. "My girl Gaga is the queen."
I chose to ignore his commentary.
The job tonight was simple—shadow the target and log his movements while blending into the noise of the city.
Phase one. Or the boring phase.
My lower face was covered by my trusty black bandana, not for fashion but for counter-surveillance. Cameras were everywhere and they liked nothing better than faces. A bandana, sometimes a helmet, a posture that slouched or stood out depending on what the hour demanded. Invisibility was a matter ofcontext.
The target—Ronan Wick—exited the mirrored glass lobby of the Delos Building at exactly 19:02 PM. The man was lean, mid-thirties, suit tailored to the shape of his ambition, angular features. No briefcase, just a phone in one hand and a leather portfolio in the other. A Bluetooth piece was jammed so deep in his ear it probably tickled his brain.
I watched him cross the parking lot. He moved like a man who had never tripped in his life. He beeped open the trunk of his car and dropped in a leather portfolio. Then he got in the driver's seat and took off.
I didn't follow immediately. That was amateur hour. Instead, I counted to ten, killed the burner phone's time stamp, and rolled the bike out behind a row of parked SUVs. I coasted a full block before merging into traffic, making sure the only tail Ronan Wick ever felt tonight was the one he'd invited himself.
A click in my earpiece. "Seven, do you have a visual?"
"Visual confirmed," I said over the noise of the engine. "Subject's in a black Lexus. Plates KPL-774."
"Copy that, buddy." Viper's voice was always a little too eager, like a terrier on a leash. "Doing more digging." Pause. "Oh wait! I got one."
