THE DUMAS JOB 2
Surveillance was everything. It wasn’t a glamorous part of the job. Long hours of watching and waiting, scribbling notes, and observing patterns, but it was essential. If Alexander Dumas had been a nobody, they could have walked in, handled it cleanly, and been gone before anyone realized what had happened.
But a politician? That was an entirely different game.
Politicians, whether small-time or influential, had protection. In this case, it wasn’t just the usual security detail — it was the CGOM, the Central Government of Mars. The CGOM was the governing body responsible for the smooth operation of every Martian colony connected by the vast Maglev train system connected to the Equator’s Space Elevator. Food, water, power, communications — they controlled it all. Taking out one of their own wasn’t just a logistical challenge, it was a declaration of war and you'd bet your ass they'd try to find the fucker who did it.
Roy remembered Irya mentioning, in her usual detached tone, that it was often easier to kill a CEO than a politician.
“CEOs don’t answer to the state,” she’d said, “but politicians do. And the state has resources that even the wealthiest corporations can’t match.”
She wasn’t wrong. The level of preparation required to kill someone like Dumas depended on their wealth, influence, and paranoia. In Dumas’s case, he wasn’t just cautious — he was actively wary. Not afraid, not yet. But he’d taken the threats seriously enough to contact the CGOM directly. Roy could only imagine how that conversation had gone, but the increased security around Dumas spoke volumes.
The man wasn’t stupid. He knew the Callisto Syndicate was after him, and he knew there was a bounty on his head. It wasn’t a question of if someone would come for him, it was a question of when.
So far, their surveillance had revealed no gaps in his armor. Dumas was always guarded, his every move accompanied by heavily augmented men who looked more machine than human. His own augmentations were another story. Irya had sent Roy a detailed list of Dumas’s implants: A Neural co-processor, Reflex booster, Interface plugs, Internal filters that can filter out poison, Cyberoptics in both eyes, Cyberarms in both arms. He also had a Microwave/EMP shielding, and a Muscle and Bone-laced sub-dermal armor. The man could take a bullet and walked it off.
Roy leaned back in his chair, staring at the dossier Irya had shared. Dumas wasn’t just another bureaucrat. He’d been a soldier. Earth-born, two tours in the Middle East, and a veteran of the Africa-China War. After leaving the military, he’d transitioned into politics, eventually catching the attention of the CGOM. His role was akin to a National Security Advisor, overseeing Alba City’s safety and stability.
“This guy’s small-time?” Roy had muttered under his breath.
The more he learned, the more questionable the contract seemed. Irya had mentioned a conversation with Devon about it — a conversation Roy hadn’t been privy to. But from the fact that the contract hadn’t been pulled, he could guess how it had gone.
The deal was still on.
If Roy had the cash or the credit to walk away, he might have. Dumas wasn’t the kind of target you approached lightly, and the deeper they dug into his background, the more the risk seemed to outweigh the reward. But Roy didn’t have the luxury of second thoughts. He simply didn’t have the credit and cash to skip out on this job either.
Gaius Devon, as far as Roy knew him, wasn’t an impulsive man. He wasn’t some street thug running a disorganized gang. He was the head of the Callisto Syndicate’s operations on Mars, handpicked by the Man on Earth himself. A multi-planetary syndicate didn’t run on chaos — it thrived on meticulous organization and pragmatic ruthlessness.
Dumas was too well-protected to make this contract worth the effort. There was no deadline, no pressing urgency. It felt less like an assignment and more like a test. One Devon had orchestrated to see if Dumas could be taken out. Roy suspected Irya was being paid more for her involvement, though he lacked the nerve to ask since she seemed to be in a bad mood after her last talk with Devon.
It was a mess.
It became a complicated, tangled affair that left Roy questioning every move they made.
Which was why, after another day of watching and waiting, Roy found himself sitting at a desk in a cramped office, filling out a job application. The apartment building where Dumas lived had strict access controls, and the easiest way in was to become part of the staff.
“You really think this is going to work?” Irya’s voice crackled in his ear through the commlink.
Roy glanced at the camera mounted above the desk, then back at the application form. “Got a better idea?”
“Plenty,” she replied, her tone cold. “None of them involve pretending to be a janitor.”
Roy sighed, finishing the last of the required fields. “Look, you’re the one who said we needed more access. This gets us that.”
There was a pause, followed by a soft laugh. “Just don’t trip over your mop, amateur.”
Roy scowled but said nothing.
When he returned to the surveillance spot later that evening, Irya was already there, sitting cross-legged on a worn-out couch, her AR glasses glowing faintly as she looked across the street where Dumas’s apartment was.
“How’d it go?” she asked without looking up.
“Application’s in,” Roy replied, dropping into the chair beside her. “Should hear back in a day or two.”
“Good,” Irya said. “You use that fake ID?”
Roy nodded, his eyes drifting to the AR display showing Dumas’s latest movements. The man was back in his apartment, surrounded by his usual guards. The sight of him — calm, composed, seemingly untouchable made Roy’s stomach churn.
“You think Devon’s setting us up?” he asked after a while.
Irya finally looked at him, her gaze unreadable. “Course’ he is. It doesn’t take a genius to understand what he’s doing. Using us. Honestly, I’m a bit bothered, but nothing can be done about it. He’s the head of a Syndicate and we’re just the Freelancers getting paid for it.”
"I see."
The room became quiet for a moment, except for the faint hum from above. Roy leaned against the chair, fiddling with his tie as he watched the sparse flow of pedestrians on the street below. No rain today. Irya sat beside him, her arms crossed, her gaze distant but focused.
“So,” Roy began, his voice low but curious, “you think Devon’s just poking the bear?”
Irya tilted her head slightly, her hair swaying with the movement. “At first, I thought he was just trying to take out an annoying politician,” she said, her tone even. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s holding back information. Either he doesn’t know everything about Dumas, or he’s deliberately keeping us in the dark.”
Roy smirked faintly. “Guessing Dumas’s bodyguards set off some alarm bells?”
“Exactly,” Irya replied, her voice cold, as though stating a fact she’d long accepted. “Most of them are Earthlings. PMC types. And not just any. These guys come from companies that have been around since the start of the 20th century. Their track records aren’t spotless, but they know what they’re doing.”
Roy whistled softly. “And we’re still calling him ‘small-time’?”
Irya’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “The fact that we’ve been snooping around without anyone noticing? Yeah, small-time. If he were a big-timer, we’d have been ID’d already. A drone would be trailing us as we speak.”
Roy glanced around reflexively. “You think we’ve got drones on us now?”
Irya pulled a small, handheld device from her pocket and held it up.
“Got a jammer here,” she said. “This beauty knocks out the signal controlling them. It hasn’t picked anything up, though.”
“That’s... comforting,” Roy said, though his voice betrayed lingering unease.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“This is bigger than you thought, isn’t it?” Irya asked, her tone almost accusatory.
Roy hesitated, then nodded. “Killing someone — it’s not exactly small potatoes.”
Irya’s gaze hardened.
“Killing anyone is never ‘small,’” she said, a trace of irritation in her voice. “Unless you’re a psycho, it’s a big deal. And Dumas? He’s no pushover. You underestimate people too much, Roy. A man who’s fought in wars, survived battlefields, and clawed his way into politics isn’t someone you take down easily.”
Roy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, if we had hired some gangsters to do it? Would that have worked?”
“Not a chance,” Irya said flatly. “Dumas would’ve shot them himself. Military types like him don’t crumble under pressure — they thrive in it. Knowing his background complicates everything.”
Roy frowned, his jaw tightening. “And Devon didn’t give us the full picture. That seems careless.”
Irya shrugged, her expression unreadable. “Careless? Or calculated? You can’t easily trust people like Devon. This job? It’s probably not even his top priority.”
Roy looked at her, his brows furrowed. “So what do you think?”
“About this contract?” Irya said, her tone clipped. “I think it’s a mess. Dumas’s background makes it not worth the price Devon’s offering. But here we are.”
Roy raised a brow. “And you’re still doing it.”
“It’s a favor,” Irya said simply. “And we might not even get the chance to pull the trigger.”
Roy scoffed. “Then why are we putting in so much effort? I’m not exactly rolling in cash over here.”
Irya’s lips quirked into a cold smile. “Is that why you applied as a janitor? Trying to earn credits while planning an assassination?”
Roy shrugged. “Kinda. Unlike you, I’m broke. I was cleaning spaceships, delivering letters, and taking any gig I could get before this. Now I’m here, scheming to ‘retire’ a politician. It’s one hell of a leap.”
Irya studied him for a moment, her gaze piercing. “Want me to lend you some money?”
Roy shook his head quickly. “No, thanks. I’ve got enough to eat, and Devon’s apartment doesn’t cost me rent.”
She didn’t respond immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, almost reflective. “Your situation is strange, Roy. I’ve seen a lot of freelancers come and go in this city. None of them started like you.”
Roy sighed, looking away. “Guess I’m just lucky.”
* * *
The call came early in the morning, breaking through the stillness of his apartment. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, he stared at the ceiling, wondering if he’d dreamed the vibration of his PDA. Then it buzzed again, more insistent this time.
He groaned, reached for the device, and squinted at the screen. The caller ID displayed the name of the apartment manager.
“Roy speaking,” he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.
“You applied for the janitor position, right?” came the manager’s voice, calm and efficient. The man sounded as though he’d already been awake for hours. Roy couldn’t pinpoint his accent. Then again, he always wondered if he could say that it’s Western or Eastern Accent here on Mars.
“If you’re still interested, I need you here at eight.”
Roy checked the time — 7:15 AM. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I’ll be there.”
The manager reminded him of the address and hung up.
By the time Roy arrived, the morning sun was just beginning to crest over the towering skyline of Alba City, casting long shadows across the street. The apartment building was ahead, its concrete façade warming with under the soft light.
Inside, the manager was waiting. A short man in his forties with sharp eyes and a demeanor that exuded quiet authority. He introduced himself as Mr. Nakamura, speaking with the clipped precision of someone who’d explained the same routine a thousand times before. He almost looked bored doing it. But he was a professional, the kind that had committed the routine to muscle memory.
“Your job is simple,” Nakamura said as they walked through the building’s pristine hallways. “Floors, walls, common areas. Everything spotless. We have standards here, and I expect you to meet them.”
“Yes, sir,” Roy replied, nodding along as Nakamura handed him a set of overalls and gloves.
“You’ll start on the first floor. Don’t disturb the tenants, and don’t dawdle. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Roy repeated.
Donning the overalls, Roy made his way to the first floor, bucket and mop in tow. He blended into the routine easily, keeping his head down and moving with the quiet efficiency of someone accustomed to thankless work. There was a strange peace in the monotony of scrubbing floors, wiping down walls, and ensuring every surface gleamed.
Here, at least, there was no risk of being shot, no pools of blood to mop up, no precarious spaceships threatening to fling him into the air. He was so focused on his work that he didn’t notice the two men approaching until they were nearly upon him.
“Hey,” one of them barked, his voice sharp. “Who are you?”
Roy froze, his fingers tightening on the mop handle. The two men were built like tanks, their movements precise and deliberate. Roy was focused, but he really didn’t hear them approach at all. Both wore combat vests over civilian clothes, their demeanor screaming private military contractors.
“N-new janitor,” Roy stammered, seeing them take the safety off their weapons, adopting the nervous tone of a man unaccustomed to dealing with authority. He had to play the part of a helpless janitor, the kind that you’d think of nothing more than a decoration.
“Who are you guys?”
The first mercenary didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestured to his companion, who pulled out a handheld scanner. “Don’t move,” he ordered Roy firmly. “We’re running tight security here. Just cooperate, and this’ll go smoothly. Any attempts to move will be considered as refusing this. Before you spout your rights, we have the right to apprehend anyone. Sorry, mate, we had to do this.”
“O-okay, I understand,” Roy said, raising his hands and fumbling for his ID card, which he handed over with exaggerated nervousness. It was the fake card Irya had made for him.
The mercenary scrutinized the ID, flipping it over twice before handing it back. He turned to his partner. “Results?”
“All natural,” the second mercenary said, studying the scanner’s readout. “No implants.”
The first mercenary frowned, his eyes narrowing as he looked Roy up and down. “You a purist?”
“What?” Roy asked, his voice edging toward confusion.
“Don’t like implants?” the mercenary pressed. “One of those types who thinks they’re unnatural?”
“No, nothing that complicated,” Roy said quickly. “I just… I don’t have the money for that kind of thing.”
The mercenary raised an eyebrow. “Most workplaces cover basic implants. What, you afraid of a little chrome?”
Roy forced a sheepish smile. “It’s not that. I just don’t like the idea of putting something inside my body, you know? Maintenance and all that—it’s expensive. I’m barely making ends meet on this planet. A gun is enough for me. Oh, I have a gun here, Sir. Want to check it?”
His partner inspected the pistol, ejected the magazine, and immediately noticed the absence of a serial number. It was an illegal weapon, but judging by the mercenary's calm reaction, it seemed far from unusual.
The mercenary then grunted, crossing his arms.
“Guess that makes sense in a way,” the mercenary said. “Not much use for implants in your line of work, anyway. No offense, mate.”
“None taken,” Roy said, shrugging. “It’s honest work at least. But… well, you gotta have some protection, right?”
“You from Earth? You sound like one, at least the accent,” the mercenary asked suddenly, his tone shifting to something more conversational.
“Yeah,” Roy said. “New to Mars.”
“No shit,” the mercenary said, his expression relaxing slightly. “No wonder you don’t have implants. Most Martians are all about that stuff. Us Earthers? Not so much. We got ours because we served, but I’d rather have bioware than chrome, you know?”
Roy nodded, trying to appear casual. “I haven’t been to Earth in a while, though. They froze my ass, you know? Cryo and all that nonsense.” He laughed nervously. “Too bad they stole everything I had while I was out. So here I am, working as a janitor, 140 millions away from earth.”
The mercenary’s demeanor hardened again. “Cryoist, huh?”
“Yeah,” Roy said with a shrug. “Apparently I was too broken to fix, so they stuck me on ice. Not my idea, believe me. Woke up with nothing and had to start over.”
“Happens,” the mercenary said coldly. “Not as common these days, though.”
“Is that right?” Roy asked, keeping his tone light. “And here I thought I was somewhat special. Figures.”
The mercenary nodded. “Lot of you guys froze yourselves to see the future. Plenty of scumbags in the mix, though.”
Roy tugged at the collar of his overalls, feigning discomfort. “So, uh, should I be here? Sounds like you guys are working on something. Don’t want to get in the way.”
“Just a routine job,” the mercenary said, waving him off. “Sorry for stopping you. Hey, is he clear?”
The second mercenary looked up from his scanner. “Clear. You need a vaccine, though.”
“A vaccine?” Roy asked, furrowing his brow. “What for?”
The mercenary shrugged. “Earth standard scanner, so it shows. But it shouldn’t matter here on Mars. Sorry to hold you up, citizen.”
“It’s no problem,” Roy said, forcing a smile. “I just hope nothing happens.”
The two mercenaries moved on, their boots echoing against the polished floor. Roy watched them for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest then calming to a still. Then he turned back to his work, gripping the mop handle tightly as he resumed cleaning.
His mind raced as he scrubbed the tiles, replaying the encounter over and over. He’d managed to get through it without raising suspicion, but the close call had left him rattled. He could still feel their eyes on him, scanning him for the slightest slip. They’d been ready to draw their weapons at a moment’s notice. Professional and cautious.
If they caught wind of his real purpose, this would all be over.
For now, though, he had a job to do.
Scrub the floors, clean the walls, and play the part of a janitor.