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But now we need to really sell the narrative, which calls for a few key bodies to drop. The money has been stolen. Now we need to cripple the cashflow on the streets to ensure it looks like one criminal enterprise is moving against the other in no uncertain terms.
My heel clicks on the sidewalk are drowned out by a couple of police cars that speed by with their sirens wailing.
“Bottlecap in position three.” William’s voice crackles in my ear. “Vault, check in.”
“Vault approaching position two. Standby,” I reply.
Vault. That’s the code name they gave me, and they didn’t take any arguments against it. It’s fine. Iama vault; it just sounds boring. Could be worse though—I could go byBottlecap.
With a smirk, I approach the building notorious for drug activity. It’s surprisingly discreet in appearance, but there is a lot of activity in and out of it, and according to the city records, it’s a derelict transport company. Very busy place for having gone under thirty years ago.
It's funny how lazy some criminals are . . . and how corrupt city officials and police can be in places like this. I climb the steps and ring the bell beside the secured door. I don’t have a meeting scheduled, and no one is expecting me, but that’s fine. I don’t need to get in; I need them to come out.
“Vault in position for handoff,” I whisper, slipping my hand into my purse.
The door opens, and a man in a suit regards me solemnly. I pull the envelope, thick with cash, out of my purse. The name scrawled across the front belongs to the man who rides the big desk inside—I don’t even know what he looks like.
The man in the doorway weighs the thick little envelope in his hand with a nod, and I leave without saying a word. Down the steps, I continue on my path, eager to get out of the way. One thing that is reliable here is no one is going to say no to a wad of money.
“Package delivered. Vault falling back to exfil.”
“Roger,” William replies. “Awaiting bottleneck.”
It’s hard to say when they’ll open the envelope. I assume it won’t take long. The incendiary device inside will give a nice pop and burn anything within a few feet of it. It’s hard to pack much of a punch in an envelope between bills, but the goal isn’t to blow the place up—it’s to cause a fire and empty it out.
“Here they come,” William says, and I hear the zip of a sniper’s bullet behind me.
Increasing my pace, I take the next corner and keep moving as the sound of his rifle recoiling repeatedly in my ear makes me want to pull the earbud out. William will take out every person that exits the place, and we have to hope we get the few valuable ones among them.
“Four down. York, confirm you are at exfil,” William says, bullets and shouts still audible from where I am.
“York?” William says again, and I stop in my tracks. “York?”
“Focus. I’ll check on York.”
Hurrying as best I can in heels, I flag down a cab and direct it to the docks where we’re all supposed to meet. I don’t see York when I get out, and I walk a bit, thinking he might have gotten hurt and couldn’t get all the way to the designated spot, but nothing. I don’t see any trace of him.
“York isn’t here.” I try to keep the panic from my voice. “I repeat, York is MIA.”
“Fall back,” William orders. “Follow protocol.”
“I . . .” My eyes sweep along the docks again, and a numbness begins to settle in my mind. “Come get me,” Iwhisper.
This was a bad idea. Them. This team. It’s impossible to be objective and detached, to operate like a robotic soldier when I am sovery obviouslyattached. I’ve lost my edge.
“Coming,” William says, sounding displeased, but my throat clogs with emotion knowing he’s coming because I asked.
I pull the comms from my ear and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Worry begins to consume me, and I slink into an alley and slump against the wall. These men are getting to me.
I’m not sure how long I’m in my fog of uncertainty and regret when I hear William’s low voice call my name.
Shifting, I look around the corner and meet his gaze immediately. He doesn’t come closer, we just stare at each other silently for a beat before he holds his hand out low, wordlessly beckoning me.
It’s all it takes.
I slink from my spot and meet him, sliding my hand into his offered grip. “Turn it off,” he commands in a whisper. “Turn it. Off.”
