There’s a shell casing in my Caesar salad.

The glass tower shot up into the blue sky, reflecting it in a deeper hue. Ghosts of hazy fluorescent lighting peeked through in dim squares. A flat cement parking garage, sunk into the ground off the side of the building, watched her from wide dark slits. The entire structure seemed to dare her.

She counted at least three hired guns parked in the back lot, and a few other vehicles checked all the boxes. Live oaks had spread enough roots under the concrete to burst out in masses of dark green leaves. She was parked under one with an untouched to-go salad on her thigh and a laptop in the passenger seat. When the wind blew, tiny leaves shaped like cockroaches fluttered past the windshield. She watched some employees come out of flashing doors and move across the grass lawns and parking lots like things caught in the breeze or ants following a process familiar only to them.

"I can get in with the rest of the lunch rush coming back."

"You don't have a badge," EP said. Her voice came through the earbuds with a clattering of keys behind it and snapped off suddenly. It was like a sharpened purr with just a rinse of a Russian accent.

"I forgot it. Silly me," Lindsey said.

"You should leave that kind of thing to Rochelle. Anyway, they'll be looking for that."

Lindsey scanned the files on the laptop screen.

"Got a lot of disposable income."

"Yea. Probably a trust fund baby. He gets regular payments from some pretty big boomer investments."

"So, he's really a supervisor? At a life insurance company?"

"Health insurance."

"Pretty boring."

"They like to put them in dull jobs if they can. Makes them harder to find."

"Apparently not."

"Just because I did it doesn't mean it was easy." There was no tapping of keys under her voice this time.

"Sorry babe. Forgot you're just that good."

Lindsey watched the people walk by and a tired question drifted into her head. She shook it off and looked back at the office. Blue block letters at the top tried to make a bullshit word seem legitimate.

"Babe, could his job be a front?"

"For what?" said EP.

"Like maybe he's undercover, or a drug lord, sometimes they..."

"You rang?" Philip said. His voice cut in with the distinctive roar of the inside of a car in traffic.

"Why are you on this line?" Lindsey said.

"Thought I'd stay in the loop."

"You've handed this job off to the professionals already. Go take a nap."

"So he's dead? Why didn't I hear?"

Lindsey squeezed the steering wheel. The Boss had brought Philip and the other two members of his crew on to supplement their manpower a few jobs ago. They had mostly operated independently, which was fine with her, but recently Michael had sat them all down and talked about integrating and streamlining and the tried-and-true optimum team size. Now they were working this op together. Pointless. If it got bad enough that they needed the extra firepower, they would be outgunned anyway.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Babe, mute him," Lindsey said. Philip got half a syllable out before EP silenced him.

"Done. Anyway, I'm trying to trace his accounts. Got all the normie shit already, trying to track him with some of his pics. One sec."

Lindsey sat in silence and watched the people stream out, endless. Her phone vibrated. It was a number she didn't recognize.

"Shit. Mute Line," she said, and her earbuds chirped.

"Hello?"

"Hey, you think they gave him some other history?" Phillip said.

"Holy fuck dude! How did you get this number?"

"I have my ways. Look, let me be honest for a second. I've held back a bit the last few jobs because I didn't want to step on anyone's toes, but I can probably track this guy if you think he's got some shady history."

"Hold that thought." She hung up.

"Open Line. Sorry babe, I'm back. Can you kick him from the call?"

"Ok one sec." EP dragged Phillip’s icon from Lindsey's call to another channel and muted herself in it.

"I found some more stuff on our guy. He makes a lot of out of state trips. The dates coincide with other shots of him at parties and clubs. I think you're right. Looks like he's going out of town to sell drugs or something."

"Can you pull a police record? Parole officer or something? Maybe I can—"

"He doesn't have a record, or I would have already found it. Can't you just wait till he goes home? You have his address, right?"

Lindsey sighed quietly. That's the first thing they would expect. EP was a blessing for her intel and little fleet of drones, but when it came to the nuts and bolts of an op, she was still an amateur. Lindsey's old boss never would have had it. Despite his flaws, every member worked front line before being put in a support position.

"Uh, yeah. Can you send me the rest of his file? Just everything you have so far. I'm gonna look it over before I try and sneak in." EP sensed she was being brushed off.

"Sure, then I guess I'll go take a nap. Here's Malachi." EP dragged Phillip's icon back into Lindsey’s call and muted herself.

"No!" Lindsey hissed.

"Hello?” said Philip. “What did you find?"

"Drop Line," said Lindsey. The earbuds chirped twice to let her know she was off the call.

She grabbed her laptop and studied the file. He moved from work to the same two nightlife districts, to his condo, and his therapist once a week. That was it. Lindsey wondered if EP had cracked his phone, but didn't feel like calling her back to ask. She looked back up at the office, a fifteen-story death trap, the kind of building they liked to fill with caches and teams on each floor. Even if she got in with the lunch rush and found out where he was, there was almost no chance of her getting to him without them knowing. The best option was to wait until he left. Or get him to leave.

She looked over the file again. No family. No friends. Just whores and clients.

Her phone vibrated again. Same number.

"Hello?"

"Hey, be on the lookout. He's should be leaving soon," said Philip.

"What?"

"I called him. He's gonna meet me to set up a deal."

"You what? Fucking idiot, it's a trap!"

"Hey!" His voice was colder. "I'm telling you he's moving. You can thank me later."

"Fuck you."

"Fine, you think it's a trap, don't go. What was your plan again? Sneak in with the lunch rush? Put a grenade in his Meatball sub?"

He hung up. She threw her phone into the passenger door.

That son of a bitch. If Philip fucked this up, Michael would give them a lecture about “cohesion” and “trusting each other”, and she would probably quit right there. How was she supposed to operate with a man-child trying to play contract killer? Why couldn't he just get the gear, set up some stashes, and let her work? They had done just fine without him and his goons!

Though, if she was being honest, she wouldn't mind having Luke join the team.

"Call Mark," she said. The earbuds beeped again.

"What's up? Was that you he was yelling at?" said Luke.

"Yes! Did he tell you he called him?! I'm supposed to be looking to see when he leaves! He could have just trashed this job!"

"You haven't seen him work."

"Ha, no, I have not, and—"

"But you've seen me work." She remembered suddenly and felt her face get warm.

"So what—"

"So trust me. Do what he says."

"I don't really have a choice now!" she hissed, but he kept on like they were best friends.

"True. Hey, do you know where the new guy is? Haven't heard from him."

"No," she snapped. "And it's kind of a bad time to be doing training day, anyway." Michael had plucked the guy out of thin air and put him on the next job like what they did took nothing special. Or maybe he thought the guy had whatever it took in droves. Either way, adding on a new hire when the other three were far from adjusted was a shit move.

"Boss told us to look out for him," Luke said.

"Michael can fuck himself. I'm no one's mom." she thought, but just said:

"He was supposed to be observing, but If I see him, I'll tell him you said hi. Drop line." She rolled down the window and threw her untouched salad into the side of a sedan.