Page 7 of Rogue’s Mark

We take a back route through the bowels of the mall that I had no idea existed before I lived here. It’s a dark and dingy service passage that most people in the Rot still don't know about. Those who do know don’t use it without a good reason. I have a reason. It gives you a sightline into the main corridor where, if you know where to stand, is dark enough so you can see out but no one can see it. I know where to stand. After all, I’ve been using this vantage point for years.

The man is right where Dex said he would be.

He's positioned near an old jewelry concession of three empty display cases against the wall, all covered in a layer of grime. But that’s not what he’s looking at. In fact, he's not looking at anything in particular, which is its own kind of looking. His eyes move across the corridor in a pattern. Slow left sweep, pause, slow right, pause, repeat. He's counting something. Exits, maybe. Or faces. I can’t be sure.

So I take my time.

He’s wearing a dark jacket, is average height, with the kind of face that gives you nothing to make note of. He’s not ugly, not handsome, not memorable. His hair is the sort of brown that could be any brown. If you passed him on the street, you'd forget him before you rounded the corner, which probably has worked in his favor.

Until now.

His hands are at his sides, empty, with his weight distributed evenly between both feet. He doesn't shift, doesn't check the time, doesn't do any of the small fidgety things that people do when they're waiting for something. He just stands there, patient and still, with a quality that belongs to people who've spent time loitering in places they aren't supposed to be.

He's good. I'll give him that. Two-plus hours in one corridor without attracting attention, aside from Dex’s, takes either complete obliviousness or complete control, and this man is not oblivious.

I watch him for another few minutes. He runs his sweep pattern twice more at the same speed, same pauses, same rhythm, consistent and practiced. He's done this enough times that it's automatic. He’s done this before, which means this is not his first time being sent somewhere to look for something or someone.

That’s the thing. Somebody sent him. Somebody who knows Fischer is here, knows what Fischer knows, and has good reasons for wanting that to no longer be the case.

The thought sits in my chest, weighty and uncomfortable.

Then he turns his head just slightly, maybe fifteen degrees to the left, and for a second, I see his profile. The angle of his jaw. The way he holds his chin level even when he turns, not tilting, keeping his eyeline constant. It’s a small thing, the kind of thing you'd never notice if you weren't looking for it.

I'm looking for it.

Something in the back of my brain wakes up, and I realize I know that angle, that particular discipline of keeping your chin level when you scan.

Where do I know it from, is the question.

I run back through everything I've filed away. Since the Rot, I keep all of it, every face, every job, whether I'll ever need it or not. Which means there's a lot to dig through.

Regardless, I run through it all, at least as best I can. I recall every corner of the Rot I've ever stood in, every face I’ve seen, every job I’ve done. And yet, nothing surfaces, at least not cleanly. The connection to this guy’s mannerisms is there. I can feel it, but it won't resolve into anything I can put my finger on.

Goddamn, that drives me crazy.

I pull back from the panel and turn to Dex, who has been standing behind me in silence.

"Eyes on him," I say. "But rotate. I don't want him seeing the same face twice. Everywhere he goes, everyone he speaks to, every question he asks, you report directly to me." I pause to make sure he's got this part. "Not Armen. Not Sting. Me. And nobody, nobody, approaches him or lets on he's being watched. As far as he knows, he's invisible. We need him to keep thinking that if we want to figure out what he’s up to."

Dex nods. "You think he's dangerous?"

"I think he's here to solve a problem," I say. "And I think we're the problem. So yeah, he could be dangerous."

I leave Dex to it and head back through the service passage, the faint memory thing still weighing on me, waiting for me to figure it out.

I will.

I just need time.

5

ROGUE

Fischer is in one of the utility rooms, which is what we call this particular place. Calling it a cell would require us to admit we occasionally detain people, and we’re not about that. Normally, if someone in the Rot does something egregious, we just kick their ass out. That’s worse punishment than anything else, including being locked up in a room here. But at the moment, we need Fischer around. So he’s got a room with a cot, a lamp, a small table, and a door that locks from the outside. The funny thing is, these are fancier digs than a lot of people in the Rot have.

He’s seated at the small table with a book open in front of him. Looks like he found the one mental escape available to him in a room with no windows and no other distractions. He looks up when I come in, his expression giving me nothing.

He's good at that. I'll give him that too. It's been a big morning for giving people credit.