Page 2 of No Time Off

“Ready?” Slash murmured to me.

“As much as I can be,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

TWO

Mick Watson

Mick sat in his car and watched through the long lens of his expensive camera as his targets were ushered to a table in the back corner of the French café. Their table was partially hidden, and he could only see the woman. They appeared to be making small talk. He was pretty good at reading lips, but the angle was wrong, and she kept turning her head. It was okay, though—he could be patient.

Patience was an essential part of his job. He liked to compare himself to nature photographers, who would sit for weeks on end on some godforsaken mountainside trying to get a few seconds of snow leopards mating. It was the same principle, except the pay was exceptionally better and he got to sleep in his own bed most nights.

He’d been chasing celebrities and politicians for almost twenty years in this town, and he’d never had a case like this. Who were these people? He knew their names, sort of. The guy seemed to be operating under an alias. I mean, who chose Slash for a name other than the guitarist for Guns N’ Roses? And Slash wasn’t the guitarist’s real name, either. His name was Saul Hudson. The Slash he was chasing had to have a real name somewhere, and it was just a matter of time before he found it.

His best guess was this Slash guy was some kind of spook, a spy. That fit with what his sources had come up with—Slash worked at the NSA in some capacity. That also fit with the man’s demeanor—he seemed cool as a cucumber, and his evasion skills were impressive. None of that was unusually uncommon in this town, but Mick could smell a story, and this couple piqued his interest big-time. His senses were tingling, and healwaystrusted his senses.

The woman…her name seemed legit. Lexi Carmichael. Still, he could find very little on her, and he’d checked everywhere. No social media, no online presence. He knew she was a techie and worked for a cyberintelligence company called X-Corp located in Crystal City, Virginia near Washington DC. She’d attended Georgetown University and had once worked at the NSA. Maybe that’s where she met this Slash guy. Taken as a whole, there was nothing special about her. There were a million techies in the DC metropolitan area who were either working or had worked for the government in one capacity or another.

The couple seemed downright ordinary. But the pope, the president of the United States, and the first lady didn’t just show up to random weddings, did they? What did they have in common? It was driving his potential clients nuts, and they were committing significant resources to get answers. The guy who broke theirrealstory and had a couple of pictures to go with it could auction off the information for well over seven figures.

That guy was going to be him.

Mick adjusted the lens, trying to bring the woman more into focus. It had been a stroke of luck for him that the feds and the DC government had cracked down on all drone flying in the city after the events of the couple’s wedding two weeks prior. Several drones had blown up in what had appeared to be a potential attack on the first lady in a motorcade. Except it turned out the first lady hadn’t been in the motorcade. But the couple he was following had, along with several of their friends and family. No other information about that attack had been released, and interest had died down.

But not his interest. This new generation of paparazzi were lazy. They relied too much on fancy tracking devices and drones instead of honing their basic investigative skills, instincts, and surveillance. Slash had easily dispatched the rest of his technology-dependent competition. But not Mick Watson. He was one of the few local paparazzi who knew this town like the back of his hand. He knew Slash had marked him—seen him following their car. That couldn’t be helped. Unlike in the movies, properly tailing someone unobserved in a car typically took three or even four cars. It didn’t matter. Mick was the only one left following them, so any photos tonight belonged to him. He’d earned it.

He didn’t know what the couple was up to this evening. Maybe they were meeting someone important that would crack this mystery wide-open. Or maybe they were just out for a romantic dinner. All things considered, it was a win-win situation for him. Either way, he’d be the only one with pictures to sell tomorrow. Pictures equaled money no matter how you looked at it.

Mick lowered the lens and surveyed the area. The parking lot seemed quiet. No competition skulking around, and, in fact, no one had entered the restaurant since the couple had arrived.

He lifted the camera to observe the situation again. Inside, nothing exciting was happening. At least he had his snow leopards, but no mating yet. The waiter had visited their table, filled their water glasses, and appeared to take their drink order. It looked more like a romantic dinner given Lexi’s posture and chair position.

At some point, she bent down and picked up her purse from where it hung on the back of the chair. Movement at last. She stood, looked around, and asked something of a passing waiter. The waiter pointed to the opposite end of the café, and Mick realized it was a false alarm.

Bathroom break.

Time to get a better angle. He set the camera aside and got out of the car. He pulled a tripod out of the back seat and slung his camera around his neck. Taking photos from a dark environment into a lighted window was tricky if you wanted to keep them from being oversaturated. He moved a few feet to his right to get a better angle on Lexi’s seat and snapped a few trial pictures to make sure the settings were good. All was ready. It had the potential to be a profitable evening.

A glance at his watch showed she’d been in the restroom a long time. Typical woman…and she didn’t even go in with a gaggle. A few more minutes passed, and suddenly alarm bells in his head started ringing. He swung the zoom lens toward the restroom area, hoping to capture some activity.

Nothing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the maître d’ walk over to the table and pick the woman’s sweater off the chair.

“What the hell?” he uttered.

The maître d’ was at his station near the door still holding the sweater when Mick raced in through the front door. “Where is she?” he gasped.

“Where is who?” the maître d’ asked in a stiff voice.

“The woman who owns that,” Mick said impatiently, pointing at the sweater.

“Oh. She asked me to hold it for her until she comes back to pick it up. Apparently, they had to leave abruptly to meet with someone important. And, who, might I ask, are you?”

Mick frowned. “Screwed, I suspect.”

Without asking for permission, he strode over to the table, ignoring the outraged protests from the maître d’. He peeked around the partition and saw the table was empty.

Damn!

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