Page 74 of Seven
Do you have protocols for everything?
I take it you don't go out and have fun when you're off work? Like movies or karaoke night or clubbing?
I'd never cared to think about any of those free time activities. At least not until she'd spoken about it. Sure, I'd witnessed other people doing it—having fun—when I observed them for the job. But Father always said going out and doing something that didn't get us closer to the goal we hadin mind was a waste of time. Life was short and any second you spent unproductively drove you to the useless kind of death.
It was grim. But it made sense.
And now it didn't.
You need to stop paying attention to what she says.
You belong to different realities.
The service door cracked open and I shifted my attention to the club. A blonde in stiletto heels, swinging a gold clutch so fake it was probably more expensive than the real thing, tottered out.
I made a note of it and quietly communicated it to Viper.
The next fifteen minutes were boring with nothing happening.
I waited patiently until a brunette with sleeve tattoos that started at her knuckles and climbed all the way to the neckline of her mesh top exited the club. She didn't have a purse on her. She paused and smoked in silence, just past the range of the security camera. Her hand shook slightly. Once the cigarette was done, she flicked it on the ground and went back in.
I pressed my earpiece, careful to keep my hands low and slow.
"I've got eyes on another one. Brunette. Inked. You copy?" I murmured, keeping the volume low. My eyes never left the door.
Viper's reply was instant. "Loud and clear, boss. You see the target yet?"
"Not yet. You sure he comes Thursdays?"
"Yes."
I waited. A taxi pulled up into the alley and a female figure appeared. Red hair, cut to the jaw, lipstick half-eaten away. She wore a gray trench, no purse, just hands shoved deep into the pockets. She moved slow and deliberate. Like she was stalling for time before entering the place.
"Visual on a redhead. Alone. Sloppy makeup. Trench coat." I described the stride, the way the mark's hands wouldn't leave her coat.
"That's the mark," Viper replied. "Her name's Cassandra. Sister's been in the hospital for six months. She's been coming to this place ever since."
"Copy." I didn't need her name. Anyone who was part of the game but not the target were all marks.
"Be careful, boss. Who knows what's in that cesspool. You might get an accidental blow job."
I muted the earpiece. Didn't need more irrelevant commentary.
Cassa—the markpaced the alley twice. She checked her phone, then walked in.
Five minutes later, a limo arrived. The man who climbed out was the last target. He went in.
After a couple of hours, the mark appeared from the building. Her eyeswere tired and she was holding the collar of her coat wrapped tightly around her neck. She checked the phone, possibly waiting for her ride. A taxi emerged from around the corner, braking hard with hazards blinking. She slipped inside.
I let her get half a block before I moved to my Ducati hidden away nearby.
The engine whined, then hushed down to a feral rumble. I strapped on the helmet and hit the throttle.
At every intersection, I counted cars. One, two, three. Never more than that. Any closer would put me at risk. Any further and I'd lose her.
It was roughly twenty minutes before she hit her stop—a block of upscale apartments with a lobby big and fancy enough to park a Bentley inside. I glided past, killed the headlight, then rolled the bike into the shadow of a bus shelter across the street. I could see her pay the fare, count the bills, then slide out of the vehicle.
She winced as she stood.
