I sat at the desk and stared at the project dashboard for a few minutes, then cycled through my assignments.
The world outside was louder, more immediate. Every motorcycle that zipped past my building made my whole body tense. I craned my neck, peered through the blinds, and every time it was just another delivery guy or a college student with a death wish.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that one of them would stop. That he'd park, black helmet still on, and look up at my window, waiting for me to notice.
The burner phone was the worst. It sat on the corner of my desk like a tiny, ticking bomb. Every so often, I'd pick it up, thumb the edges, check for missed calls.
Around noon, I made another pot of coffee, then poured it down the drain when I realized my hands were shaking too much to consume more caffeine.
I paced the apartment. Watered the only plant I had. Rearranged the books on my shelf.
I returned to the desk, opened my emails. Closed them again. My eyes kept drifting to the phone.
At 2:18 PM, I heard another motorcycle.
I moved to the window. This time, it wasn't a delivery. The bike was red and black, crouched at the curb, exhaust still ticking. The rider just sat there, helmeted, unmoving, one hand on the clutch, another had a phone in it.
I waited, unsure.
This bike was different from the one I saw last night—an all-black Ducati.
The guy flipped the kickstand and stepped off. A girl ran out from the building next door and rushed over to him. They hugged.
I removed myself from my spot by the window.
A little after three, I finally grabbed the burner and pulled up theCustomer Servicecontact. My finger hovered over the call button.
Don't. You're being stupid, Kimmy.Don't.
But the more I looked, the more the warning twisted into a dare.
I pressedCall. My thumb left a sweaty print on the button.
One ring. Two.
Then the male voice answered, "Operative Seven. Are you in danger?"
I froze, unable to say anything. I recognized the voice immediately—deep, calm, a little velvety—the voice I heard last night in the corridor of Windhaven when Ronan Wick cornered me.
10 seven
Seventy-one.
Seventy-two.
Seventy-three.
Twenty-seven more push-ups to go, I thought to myself as I stared at the floor.
I knew it better than I'd known most people. It was cold, smooth, slightly abrasive where the paint was gone. Each time my chest brushed the concrete, I pressed harder.
On push-up seventy-eight, the burner vibrated against the crate.
Fuck.
I froze, sweat hanging off my jaw, pulse hammering into my ears. Craned my neck. Glanced at the screen.
The number that flashed up was the client.
