--XI--

I positioned my feet carefully.

If I fell here, then it was going to be three and a half stories to the ground. And that wouldn't really be too much of an issue in one sense.

But it would give away my location.

I repositioned my left hand. With my right I steadied the earpiece.

"...not going to deliver until the 23rd, four PM."

"Yes, sir."

The people speaking were far down; the earpiece allowed me to get closer without being there. I was balanced on the trusses of a large and unfinished gable roof.

This is where Torres and other dealers carried out their own operations. I always made sure to have as little to do with drug dealers as possible; this was an obvious exception.

"Joaquin!" said one voice.

"Yes, sir," said another voice.

"Colombia?" said the first voice. There was a shuffling sound, and then the sound of bags hitting a surface. Maybe the floor, or a table, or a wall. "Black Stuff? Or Chalk?"

"Angel Dust, sir."

"How many?"

Inwardly I groaned. Maybe I was wasting my time here.

I climbed higher, to the top of the triangular structure, simultaneously using my phone's holograph to memorize faces of more people- contacts that Connor or Belinda or I could investigate later; perhaps even see in person.

Then something caught my attention.

Somewhere below me, between crates and bricks and stacks of wood: a man not much taller than I, with dyed neon blue hair, braided on one side and with shiny, metallic green highlights.

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He was scribbling on what looked like a clipboard, or maybe a large pad of paper; I couldn't really tell. I just knew I needed to get a closer look.

I gave myself ten seconds, to assess whether or not there were too many people, to weigh the dangers, if any; if moving now was worth the risk.

I dropped down, to a tall stack of crates about a story below me.

"Midnight!" It was Kaylee's telepathic voice. "Hey!"

From the top of the stack of crates, I leaped towards an empty window frame.

I was still flying through the air when I responded.

"I'm just a bit busy right now, Kaylee," I said. "I'm sorry. Can we talk later?"

I caught the windowsill with my fingertips, without making a sound.

"Two minutes and I'll be done," said Kaylee.

"One minute," I said.

I hopped off of the wall and onto another stack of crates, this one bringing me much closer to the ground.

"Okay," said Kaylee. "Fine! I just wanted to say that Caleb came home today, really happy. He was like a Christmas tree."

I had no idea what a Christmas tree had to do with Caleb being happy, but I said, "Okay."

"So, whatever you did, and I mean, whatever you did- thank you."

I did this little squeaky high-pitched telepathic laugh. It was pitiful. "You're welcome, Kaylee. Talk to you later."

I hopped off of the top crate and reached ground level, in perfect silence. I smiled. I was meant to do everything soundlessly. It always felt nice doing the job the way it was meant to be done.

I moved closer to the man in question.

It was simple; Meadows or occasionally Wyatt Shafer, a man who took people in for questioning, did the more "brutal" work (brutal in my opinion at least). Belinda was the smart one. I was the hamster that stole cheese and fruits and grains and vegetables from places, if these things might have a strand of hair on them, or maybe some fingerprints. I was useless in a fight, but simultaneously I wasn't useless in a fight- that's what James said. Apparently I proved it before getting the job.

I hated fighting. I hated it, absolutely hated it. I couldn't say this enough, emphasize this enough. And only in part because it was my job to avoid anything that might jeopardize the investigation; it was my job to not give anything away.

I'd defended myself plenty of times. But while working, I mostly couldn't afford any fights- and I still wouldn't enjoy them if I could.

It was easy for me to follow the man undetected. It took me some light and a small mirror to get what I needed first: a glimpse of the tattoo on his face.

Butterfly, between the left eye and left ear.

Reynaldo Mendoza Torres.

I waited while Torres approached an old wooden desk, put down the pen and pad of paper, and sat down. He took a phone call that lasted five seconds and offered nothing useful. Then he left.

I scanned the area. I didn't know for sure if it was meant to be some kind of large warehouse or factory or department store; it was empty except for construction materials. And drugs. And the people selling the drugs. But they all were too far away, and not even looking. No cameras.

It took me only about 90 seconds to put on my gloves, snag the pen Torres used to write, swab the desk and the chair behind it, take one blank sheet of paper from the pad- the one at the bottom- place everything in evidence bags, and vanish from the scene.