Page 6 of Eyes in the Shadows

His laughter follows me out, abruptly ending as I slam the van door shut. I’m hoping for another sign of Eleanor as I look down the street and step into the mailroom/entryway, but my watch tells me that her 10 minutes were up 20 minutes ago and there’s no doubt in my mind that blushing, overly-apologetic Eleanor is a rule-following submissive at heart.

Which is good. I’m not a fan of brats.

I make my way back up the stairwell, pausing at each floor to verify thateveryone is gone. Only lonely Mrs. Parker from 3A is still inside, descending the stairs so carefully with her carpet bag that she actually appears to be moving backwards. I sigh, set down my gear, and escort her out. Then I lock the doors behind her.

I hate dealing with tenants. It always sucks when we can’t find an empty building for cover and have to go to plan B. But plan B isn’t hard to execute, all it takes is a few well-placed cockroaches and an intercepted phone call to the exterminator. I’ve got some empty bug bombs I’ll set up on my way out to sell it.

One of the reasons being an exterminator makes a great cover is that it’s one of the few things that will clear out a whole building for more than a day. We need everyone gone because if I’m somehow spotted, or the building is compromised during the mission, no one will be around to see anything. It keeps people safe.

The other reason is because the building manager has to give you copies of all the keys to all the units.

I set my cases down outside the door of 3B, put the key into the lock and push inside. The first thing I notice is that she’s picked up the mess. She did a lot in 10 minutes—turned her bed into a couch, put away the rest of the clothes hanging out of drawers, and cleared away the dishes that had been sitting out. The place is clean, if bursting with so much stuff I’m not sure she’s ever heard of the concept of minimalism.

My chest puffs out as I inhale deeply. There’s a hint of that old-building smell under layers of other scents, like cleaning products and candle wax. But it also smells like some kind of flowers and a distinctly feminine musk that I know is what she’d smell like if I woke up next to her. It’s sharp and sweet and bitter and subtle.

I set down my bags by the window and draw the curtains closed. They’re the thick, light-blocking kind and dark. No one will see the end of my gun poking through in the dark unless they know exactly where to look, and they look hard. They certainly won’t be able to see my silhouette behind it. It’s perfect.

I grab ahold of one of the chairs at the pathetic little dining table and start to drag it over to the window to get set up, then stop with a frown. It creaks and wiggles in my hand. No fucking way this thing is going to hold me. I eye the other chair at the table, but it doesn’t look much better. So, I drag the futon over and perch on the arm.

Some time later, I’ve got the scope and tripod assembled, all my gear has been checked and the line of communication with my team is open. This has officially become a waiting game. I stand, stretch and take a look around. My first stop is the TV remote. I click it on and get nothing but static, no matter which buttons I press. Fucking perfect.

A few hours later, the sun has set at the ripe hour of 4 PM like it does here in the winter, and I’m numb with boredom and sick of my phone screen. So, I decide to snoop.

I grab a framed photo of two little kids off the table behind where the couch was. It’s recent, judging from the Disney characters they picked for their Halloween costumes. I eye the terrible drawings taped to the opposite wall. Are those her kids?

Nah. It’s a studio. What would you do with two kids in a studio? There’d be more signs of them—toys, small clothes, that sort of thing.

The other pictures are of an elderly couple at the beach, some college-aged girls with their arms around each other, and some candids of the same people. One particularly old one is of two little girls—one with thick, straight bangs, smiling with her eyes closed and missing a front tooth and one, slightly taller, holding a black cat hostage in her inexpert grip.

Other than the one with two little girls—her bangs are almost the same—Eleanor isn’t in any of the pictures and I frown.

I move into the cramped kitchen next, opening cabinets and seeing more appliances than I was aware existed. Her fridge is fairly empty except for a few containers of what must be leftovers, and I’m sorely tempted to steal one of those IPAs, but I refrain. Top cabinets are pretty ordinary with glasses, plates and… hello…

More spices than I’ve ever seen in my entire life fill one cupboard to bursting. It doesn’t even close all the way, something I’d initially assumed was just yet another quirk of this shithole studio apartment.

I pick up a few I recognize—garlic, onion, salt—but my eyes widen at some. The fuck is gochugaru? I open it, give a heavy sniff, and cap it quickly enough that I don’t get snot inside the bottle when I sneeze.

Okay, I’m really starting to like this chick. She likes it spicy.

My stomach growls, reminding me it’s been approximately three hours since I last ate. I’m always hungry, side effect of a high metabolism needing 4k calories a day to maintain muscle mass at my size. My duffel is half beef jerky and packaged salty snacks, but now… I’m kind of curious about those leftovers. She did say she works at a restaurant. I assumed she meant as a waitress, but maybe I’m wrong.

I grab one, pull the lid off and a delicate—if fishy—smell wafts out. Oh shit, is that salmon?

This is a bad idea, I tell myself as I toss the container in the microwave. Her fridge is empty, she’ll notice that the leftovers are gone. But as the pasta heats up and the scent fills the air, my mouth waters and I silence the part of my brain that reminds me of the motto beloved by snipers and national park enthusiasts alike: leave no trace.

I audibly moan at the first bite. Wes and Dimitri aren’t exactly putting time in to meal prep and I barely know my way around a microwave. Sure, we appreciate a good meal, but the food-is-fuel approach has gotten us all this far. Dimitri even did his little OCD calculations to figure out optimum nutritional requirements for us all, and has the same groceries delivered every week. Eggs. Chicken. Broccoli. Lettuce.

I’m so sick of fucking salad and grilled chicken breast.

Movement across the street on my monitor catches my eye and I shove another forkful in my mouth as I cross the room in two strides. “Status?” I say into the earpiece.

“I’am here,”comes Dimitri’s deep Russian voice over the mic.“I have a corner booth on the south east side, close to the kitchen.”

“I’ve got a visual,” I say, pressing a few buttons and smoothing out the image so I can see the Russian more clearly through the grimy windows of The Lucky Goat. The guy is fucking huge, his legs barely fold under the table, and looks like he’s having a terrible time. I almost laugh as the first girl approaches in spite of his mean mug. “Good luck with blondie.”

He grunts, annoyed, and I see him wave her off and take a swig of his beer.

As I finish the salmon pasta, I reflect on the job. We’ve only been here about a month and that was all it took to figure out the exact pickup and drop points for the weapons shipments. If all goes well, we’ll get everything we need tonight for the hit tomorrow. I’m not on deck tonight, I’m a contingency for the man on the ground.

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