Page 58 of The Bonventi Hitman
"Business. Always business," he says, keeping his eyes forward without looking down at me.
"Well, they say some business is better than no business."
"Not this kind of business," he says and finally glances down at me, "at least not today."
We walk for a few moments in silence, and I see the coffee shop sign appear. My palms instantly become clammy, and I wipe them on my jeans.
As we come within about 15 feet of the entrance, I see Gabriel pull out his phone.
"Motherfucker," he says under his breath.
He stops, and so do I.
He turns to me. "I need to take this. Umm, go get your coffee, and I will wait for you out here."
"Oh, I...uhh, okay. Do you want anything?"
He shakes his head. "No, but here," he says, pulling out a wad of cash and handing me a $50 bill. "For your coffee."
I grab it, and he turns to answer the call.
As I walk inside, that distinctive coffee brewing smell fills my nostrils. I scan the faces of the baristas, searching for any sign of recognition or a discreet signal from my FBI contact. I suppose if they did something, however, they wouldn't be a very good undercover agent.
I join the line, and my heart is hammering in my chest as I slowly move along, inching my way closer to the counter.
I cross my arms, and on one side, my fingers dance along the hem of my waistband where the folded papers are hidden. On the other, I clutch the cash Gabriel handed me.
As I reach the counter, another barista approaches and greets me with a warm smile. "Good morning, ma'am. What can I get started for you today?" he asks me.
"Umm, a small flat white, please," I say, trying to keep my voice calm and cool as I glance around, looking at the workers once more.
"All right, small flat white," he says, pressing buttons on a computer. "Would you like anything else? Fresh-baked muffin? Croissant?"
I shake my head. "No, thanks," I say and hand him Gabriel's $50.
He takes it and gives me my change. "One moment, ma'am."
A few seconds later, another barista appears. He's short, about my height, with very thin lips and glasses.
He sets my drink down in front of me, reaches over, and puts a top on my drink. Then he does something that makes my throat tighten—sprinkles cinnamon on my lid.
"Bathroom," he says in a low tone and looks to his left.
I follow his gaze and see a door with an "Out of Order" sign on it.
I look back at him, and he nods. He picks up my drink, moves it over to the to-go section, and walks away.
I pick up what I think he's hinting at and make my way down the hall in the direction of the "Out of Order" sign. I look back to see no one watching me and turn the handle. The door opens, and I slide inside.
Thirty seconds later, the man opens the door and locks it behind him.
"Agent Bennett, we don't have much time," he says.
"Yes, I?—"
"Do you have anything to share with the Bureau?"
I fumble at my waistband and pull out the papers. I open them up to look them over and remove the top page.
