"How many?"
"Two. Complete sets. Clean. One female and one male."
Another pause. I can hear him thinking, how many days he’ll need and the cost. Marcus has been doing this for fifteen years, forging documents, new identities, the kind of work that makes people vanish when they need to. We met seven years ago in Albuquerque. A situation that required bloodshed and discretion in equal measure. I provided the first. Marcus understood the second.
He's never asked me what I do. I've never asked him, and that's why this works.
"Timeline?" he asks.
"One week."
"Fuck, Dom. You could have given me more time."
"I know, but it’s urgent."
"It's gonna cost."
"I have it."
He's quiet again. I can picture him in whatever safe house he's using now, probably Vegas, maybe Reno. Somewhere with enough transient population that no one can pick him out of a crowd.
"You in trouble?" he asks finally.
"Does it matter?"
"No. Just curious."
"We need to disappear," I say. "Completely."
"We?"
"Me and someone else."
"Someone you trust?"
I glance back at Roxy. She's organizing her photography equipment, methodical and focused. Her hair falls across her face as she works, and I feel that familiar pull in my chest. The certainty.
"Yeah," I say. "Someone I trust."
"Okay." Marcus exhales. "Send me over pictures today that I can use of you both. You know the drill, and use the encrypted message site, details are the same. Then meet in one week. I'll text you the location. Bring cash. And Dom?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't fuck this up. If someone is hot on your tracks, I need to know now."
"We're careful."
"Careful and being traced are two different things."
"I’m aware."
He hangs up and I lower the phone and stare out at the desert. One week. That gives us time to move money, set up the false trails, and prepare. By the time we meet Marcus, everything else needs to be in motion.
Roxy appears beside me, coffee in hand. She passes me the cup without a word and I take it, the warmth grounding.
"Did you get hold of him?" she asks.
"Yeah."
