She made it to the entrance and buzzed herself in. I checked my watch, then the apartment directory Viper sent me via secure transfer onto my phone. Four stories, sixty units. The name readThe Lux. The mark's name wasn't even on the lease. Her sister's was. She moved in here four months ago, a little after she started going to Club Dionisius.
I waited two minutes, then three. Looked around.
No sign of pursuit. Not even a bored cop loitering in a cruiser. But I still felt the air tighten around the building, as if something waited on the inside. Viper had detected a tail on me recently and I'd been extra careful. He also intercepted some questionable communication between the target and some hired guns he used for jobs that required discretion. I had no doubt that job was finding me.
I checked the backup plan in my head. If we missed something and someone was indeed tailing me, there was a knife in my backpack. A handful of zip ties. A second knife was strapped to my ankle.
Anyone who would try to play me would be in for a nice surprise.
I waited exactly five minutes before making my move.
My bike had already been left at the street parking slot, the license plate obscured and hidden from the cameras on the building.
There was an elderly couple in the lobby ready to leave and I used this as an opportunity to slip inside.
I removed the bandana from my mouth and pulled the baseball cap lower to hide my eyes and kept my head down as I crossed the street, shoulders hunched to mimic someone cold, or tired, or hungover. The old man pushed the door open and let the woman exit first. I was there, thanking him with my phone glued to my ear as if I was on an important call.
He just smiled at me and continued on.
The building's lobby was marble and glass, all blank surfaces, the kind of place that took itself seriously.
The security desk was empty. That was a mistake.
My boots squeaked on the polished floor while the glass doors hiss shut behind me. I pulled the bandana over my nose and scanned the room in a quarter second. The sign indicated elevators were to the left and stairs to the right. A fake palm tree by the column in the corner.
I turned right and into a narrow hallway and headed toward the stairs, hands in jacket pockets, back straight. Didn't make it five steps.
A shadow separated itself from the wall and launched at me.
He went for my face with both hands, a knife already out and glinting. I twisted my head and drove my elbow into his ribs. Felt the air pop out of him. But he didn't let go—he grabbed at the bandana, fingers clawing to rip it off, and we spun together, knocking over a low table. I hit the floor hard, back scraping marble, vision filled with the ceiling's chandelier and his arm driving straight for my jaw.
Instinct cut in. I rolled, caught his wrist, and bent it backward. He grunted but didn't drop the knife. Instead, he switched hands, slicing under my left side. The pain was hot and sharp and way too close to the kidney. Not the worst I'd ever felt, but enough to matter.
I bit back a curse and drove my knee up into his stomach. He doubled over, not for long, and tried again for the bandana. I headbutted him, hard. A wet sound, a flare of red. He staggered, but not far.
I used the momentum to get to my feet and bring my fist down on his face. This time, he dropped to the floor and didn't move.
I didn't think. I sprinted to the door, hand pressed tight against the wet heat soaking through my T-shirt and jacket.
I ducked outside, back into the night and around the corner. There, I leaned against the cool brick of the building. My breaths were short, shallow, but controlled. I took off my gloves, unzipped my jacket, and looked at my T-shirt. It was soaked in blood. I peeled it up with one hand and checked the wound. Not deep—off to the side, below the ribs, nothing immediately fatal, but needing some minor patching up before blood loss became substantial.
Fuck.
I'd never gotten this blindsided.
I exhaled, counted the seconds, then zipped up my jacket and walked back to my bike, holding a hand over the wound. I couldn't afford blood on the sidewalk. What worried me is the possibility of leaving blood in the lobby. Blood meant DNA. DNA in the wrong hand meant my identity could be discovered. And my connection to the Bureau.
I made it to the bike, put the gloves back on, pulled out my phone, and called the number that was on the apartment complex on theLeasing Nowsign.
After a few transfers, I got to speak to the right person. I said I was a resident in unit ten and complained that I just saw blood in the lobby. I added that I would sue the management if it's not cleaned up immediately. By the time these fools figured out who the right tenant in unit ten was—if such a unit even existed or was leased to someone—the mess in the lobby would be cleaned and my DNA would be gone before someone I didn't need got to it.
Then I locked my helmet in place, and forced myself to straighten up. The pain radiated in hot, regular waves—every heartbeat a little electric jolt through the side of my torso.
Fuck.
It had been a long time since I got injured on the job.
It was almost embarrassing.
