Page 10 of Seven
Typically, the operatives didn't engage with clients directly, but we needed to know how they looked in case they were somehow close to the targets. There could be no room for error, no unnecessary collateral damage.
I took a moment to catalog the details about the client I could see in the photo. Age was somewhere between twenty-five to twenty-seven. She looked about five-six, lean, likely a runner or a swimmer from the limb definition. Unremarkable, but maybe on purpose.
Father watched me watch the picture.
"She works from home. I highly doubt you'll ever cross paths," he spoke.
I didn't respond. I had no need for any additional info. I mostly wanted to know who the targets were.
The second photo was of a man in a high-rise lobby, framed by marble and chrome. Thirty-ish, light brown hair, angular features, sharp, expensive suit. His posture was performative, hands tucked behind his back, chest forward, a lion showing off in front of the camera. Eyes were cold, mouth shaped into a smile that wasn't meant for anyone.
"Ronan Wick," Father said. "Target number one." There was some basic info about him on the back of the photo, which I scanned. More would come later.
I moved on to the third image. Another man, this time in a gallery, white-walled and hung with oversized canvases. He looked like a rat king—a little taller, neatly combed hair, green eyes with a flicker of intelligence and greed. He wore a navy suit, but with less discipline than the first man.
"Jerico Thorne," Father continued. "Second target."
I flipped to the last photo.
It was a headshot, the kind that only money could buy, the kind you sent to magazines when you wanted to look like a better version of yourself. The man's face was handsome in a way that made you want to punch it.His hair was black with some silver streaks at the temples, meticulously styled, his jawline classically squared. He wore a smile, but his eyes were dead.
"Caius Valmont. The ringleader," Father supplied. "You take him on last."
I nodded, took all the photos and spread them in a row on the desk, faces up. I looked at each in turn, burning the details into memory. Body language, tells, weaknesses. Everything I could get from these photos and everything I needed to get me started. I was good at reading faces off paper.
Father steepled his fingers. "The client wants to settle the score," he said. "Three years ago, the targets took turns with the client at a high-end party in Westwood. Drugged her, did what they wanted."
The world ran on this kind of filth, and the Bureau's job was to clean it up—quietly, efficiently, no traces. Only justice.
"The Valmonts have resources," Father went on. "They bought the girl's silence with a settlement and a foolproof NDA and then got the case thrown out in appellate. Removed any mention of this from anywhere they could online. Erased her from the industry. The client is still on her forty-eight."
A normal person was supposed to feel something after hearing about what had happened to the client, but in my line of work every job was a sob story. And emotions? They were unfamiliar to me. Father always taught me not to let feelings influence my decisions if I wanted to survive. And I had. I'd survived this wretched world so far. I'd never let some useless sentiments ruin it for me in the future.
"Standard shadow and reconnaissance to begin with," Father said. "If it escalates, you know the drill. No unexpected moves. We want these men broken."
I let the silence breathe while the gears were turning in the back of my mind.
"Questions?" Father asked.
"No," I said, rising to my feet.
"Good. These men should get what they deserve."
"They will. Just let me know if the client is ready to move forward."
I placed the chair back where it was when I'd walked in with surgical precision, and let myself out. The door clicked shut behind me.
3 kimmy
If I had to pick a moment of my life that resembled a poorly scripted B-movie, it would have been Tuesday night in the parking lot of Joe's Market.
I paused under a pair of streetlights that reminded me of the universe's broken Morse code. Let the cars leaving the lot pass. My bags were loaded with what Brynn calledrich folks’ foodand what I calledhealthy options. Two for one zucchini pasta. Low sodium bone broth. Baked veggie chips. Gourmand cheese. A single bottle of merlot, just so I could pretend I was classy and not stress-drinking.
I was halfway to my Honda, when a sedan with tinted windows glided in like a shadow. It idled there, hungry and silent, before creeping forward to block my path.
My heart did a pirouette in my chest.
A rare window hissed down. The smell that drifted out wasn't anything I recognized—old leather, faint citrus, a whisper of something coppery. I forced my eyes to remain on the vehicle. The driver's silhouette was a careful absence—just a jawline in profile, hands resting at ten and two. Next to him, the passenger seat was empty.
