I finished the set—form perfect—and racked the dumbbell without a sound. Rested five breaths, then crossed the room.
The envelope was sealed with black tape and there was a number scribbled on it. One. I knelt, checked the tiny crack under the door for shadows, then scooped it up and flicked it open as I walked back.
The contents fell onto my bed with a crisp, final sound.
The first page was a set of financial statements. The numbers ran into the seven figures. Each page had a different name, but the same slow bleed of assets—all the money siphoned through front companies, funneled into the same three accounts. Switzerland, Singapore, Panama.
The second page was a string of emails between the target and a shell-corp attorney. Most of the words were in code, but the dates told a story. Monthly payoffs, increasing over time. The last one—two weeks ago—was triple the norm. Emergency?
The last page contained a memo from a care facility somewhere in Brentwood. There was a patient's name. A diagnosis. Progressive dementia. Daughter's name. She was a primary caregiver and had the power of attorney. There were additional court documents. The daughter tried to file a case against the target, but it was thrown out by the judge.
There were more documents as I spread the pages in a grid, scanning for patterns. The evidence wasn't just good. It was bulletproof. A prosecutor's wet dream. Not that any prosecutor would ever see it. While this was in my hands.
My earpiece buzzed. "Miss me already?" Viper's voice asked.
"You delivered," I said.
"You know me, boss." He laughed a little. "I take it you saw the extent of his machinations."
"Yes."
"Can you use it?"
"I can." My plan was forming as we spoke.
These scams were predictable, but the volume of cash moved by the target in three years was impressive. He went mostly for older people with substantial amounts of money and health problems. The one who invested while on the verge of dementia couldn't even remember he'd given away his fortune. His daughter's fight was a futile attempt. She'd never see a penny.
"Should I keep digging?" Viper asked.
"The judge is in the target's pocket?" I checked.
"Yes. Plays golf with his parents."
"No wonder."
"So, you want more?"
"Not necessary for now. I'll see about using what we have."
I ended the call and shifted to the evidence on the bed. Each piece was already slotting into place in my head. I organized it, put the Denis Nash file on top.
I'd dealt with worse men than this target. But somehow the thought of the old man with holes in his memory, the daughter fighting for a scrap of justice—these things clung to the inside of my skull, the way cigarette smoke sticks to your teeth.
I didn't like that. I wasn't supposed to get sentimental.
Shoving the thoughts aside, I packed the folder only with necessary documents and moved to stand at the mirror in my bathroom. The lights there remained off. It helped me get into character.
My reflection was just a silhouette—dark, broad-shouldered and narrow waisted, hopefully forgettable in the right clothes. I practiced my new face, ran through the story one last time. The client wanted the target broken, not dead. But sometimes, what broke a man was simply showing the world what he really was.
I was in position before sunrise, behind the wheel of a silver Civic with a fake Uber decal and half the windows blacked out. I wore a generic gray jacket, green baseball cap, surgical mask, and sunglasses. Anonymous, but not suspiciously so.
Besides, these days, post-Covid no one questioned masks anymore. I could easily pass for some germaphobe.
Orson Nash's condo tower was all glass and chrome, security tighter than most banks. Viper had run the schedules the night before—guards rotated at 7 AM and 3 PM. Trash and delivery hit at quarter past nine. Residents started moving around 8 AM.
I watched the stream of morning people for half an hour, cataloguing every face, every badge, every gesture of boredom or alertness. Nash was easy to spot—tall, wiry, hair at the temples becoming wispy white even though he was in his mid-thirties. He wore a tracksuit and according to Viper never used the lobby's revolving door. Always the manual, side entrance. Today, I'd intercept him there. It was perfect because it had less foot traffic.
At 09:36 AM, Orson Nash came out, hands shaking a thermos, and carrying a cycling helmet, eyes ahead. I fell in two steps behind him, pace casual, a fat envelope tucked under my arm. He reached the parking curb, bent to unlock his bike.
