"He's coming out. Alone," Viper said on the line.
I flicked my gaze to the elevator. The target was headed back to the exit toward the garage, straightening his tie, alone. He had the sated look of a man who'd just had a good fuck. He strode to the Lexus, got inside, and drove off.
I let him have a two-minute lead before following.
"He's on the move again," I told Viper.
"Back to the office?"
"Negative. Heading south on Juniper."
"You want his schedule for tomorrow?" Viper asked. "And his call logs?"
"Yes."
A pause. "He's got a calendar block for 2 PM. Red Iguana Country Club. Meeting with Nash. I'm sending you the address."
"Copy. Do we know who this Nash is?"
"Hang on." Another pause and some computer keyboard clicking. "Board member at the Pacific Investment Consortium. Old money. Nothing interesting on grandpa. They did book a VIP room. Bet you anything it's not golf they're discussing."
"Copy. Over and out." I got all the info I needed for now. I didn't care about Viper's jokes.
Instead, I followed the target all the way to his gated townhouse in the hills. He parked, checked his phone, then hustled inside without a backward glance.
Country clubs always made me think of morgues. The artificial chill, the white-gloved staff gliding silent as phantoms, the bright lacquered surfaces so clean you'd swear nobody had ever touched them.
Red Iguana was no exception. It squatted at the end of a private road, hidden from the rest of the city by a perimeter of cypress trees and an army of cameras that didn't even pretend to be subtle.
I stashed my bike in the bushes at the bottom of the hill and arrived to the club on foot, wearing blue cargo pants and a matching button-down with a fake company logo. I had a toolbox in one hand. Empty. The trick was to dress professional enough to make people uncomfortable asking questions.
I had to bare my face for this particular task, but I'd driven past the club at dawn to check their surveillance. I knew the best angle and spot to ensure my face would not be seen on the monitors, should someone check. Plus, I had a disguise. A moustache always came in handy in situations like this.
At the service entrance, a rent-a-cop blocked my path with a clipboard. He wore a badge that saidAssistant Security Director,but the paunch over his belt saidLast Job Was Mall Cop.
I gave him a fake name Viper had provided me with.
"You're not on the list," he said. His eyes never left the clipboard.
"Don't need to be," I told him. "Valerio's asked for me. Got a last-minute temp contract. Maintenance audit, some kind of water pressure thing."
He grunted. "Valerio's not in yet."
I shrugged. "He said to ask for Maria if there's a problem. Or you can call the main office and explain to the owner why their party might get shut down."
He grunted.
"Look, man. I got another gig after this. I'm only here because I'm doing Valerio a favor," I pressed on.
People always caved when you made them realize their own incompetence could tank their boss's work.
Assistant Security Directorwinced and stepped aside. "Just don't wander, okay?"
"Got a job to do."
I breezed through, not looking back. Viper had given me the names this morning. Maria and Valerio were the managers here, and the Bureau had dummy records for all the temps. The infiltration would be clean, so long as I didn't start a fire or knock anyone unconscious.
Inside, I mapped the terrain. Service hallway to the left, kitchens ahead, a staff changing room behind a locked door that took me five seconds to bump open with a metal shim. Nobody inside. I picked a uniform off the rack, found a white apron, checked myself in the mirror. I could have passed for a waiter at any wedding in the county.
