No Rest for the Wicked - Chapter 3

In the dimly lit garage, the man in the sleek black blazer struck a match with a hand that remained perfectly still, igniting the tip of his cigarette. The small flame flickered briefly, casting a warm glow on his composed features before extinguishing into a thin wisp of smoke that curled upwards.

The flashes of light from the few fluorescent bulbs still holding on for life in the garage glimmered off the patent-leather heels of his partner as she shifted her weight, making the click of stiletto on concrete seem deliberate, almost menacing. Her posture was impeccable…shoulders squared, spine ruler-straight.. Not a strand of hair broke rank from the severe knot at the base of her skull.

She didn’t so much lean against the wall as claim it. The line of sight she trained on the man across from her wasn’t merely direct; it was evaluative, as though each detail…the tremor-less hand with the matchbook, the nervy cigarette perched between his lips…was being logged for later use.

He’d seen her in action before. At the conference table when she filleted a junior executive with nothing but a spreadsheet and a half-smile; at hotel bars where alliances were cemented over gin and silence. She had a reputation that preceded every introduction and stalked behind every exit…a woman who’d once talked down a cartel hit-man just long enough to slip poison into his drink as he had outlived his usefulness.

He took another drag, eyes narrowed against the smoke. He knew how this usually worked. He provided muscle and plausible deniability, she engineered outcomes. They’d never spoken about trust because trust wasn’t part of the assignment; reliability was. The kind of reliability that came from knowing neither would hesitate to put a bullet through the other if protocol demanded it.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and unhurried, yet something in it suggested that time itself should pay attention.

“They gave us a task,” she said.

The man exhaled smoke and flicked the extra ash accumulating at the end of his Marlboro onto the ground. “Oh? Any chance they plan to pay us back with actionable information on how we can harness the same power they seem to have?”

“No, just a request to take care of some maid they want disposed of.”

He shook his head in frustration. “They were supposed to deliver results. They’ve been dragging us along for too long now. First with Dr. West, and now with these errands.”

The figure shifted, her heels echoing faintly in the parking garage. “Flip’s still embedded.”

“Flip is loyal, it might be time to utilize him more.” the man said. “If the window closes before we get full spectrum synchronization data, we won’t be racing against time. We’ll be buried under it.”

A silence. The kind that you can almost taste.

“Word is, Parallax made contact in London,” the figure said.

“Parallax is three months ahead of schedule. If they crack the harmonic key, we’re all just echoes.”

“So what do you want done?”

The man pinched the cigarette between two fingers, watching the ember pulse one final time before grinding it into the cold concrete of the pillar at his back. He inhaled through his nose, as if savoring some trace element in the garage’s stale air, then released it with a long, deliberate exhale.

“It’s time to drop the dead weight,” he said. There was a finality in his voice that seemed to settle in the spaces between them, rooting it all in the present moment. “I’ll handle Flip. He’s ready to move anyway.”

She didn’t nod, but something about her stance shifted with approval…a subtle relaxation of her shoulders that might have been invisible to anyone who hadn’t spent years reading tension for a living.

“We want West boxed in,” she replied, “but not spooked.” Her tongue lingered on the consonants, as if weighing each word for maximum impact. “So we float a rumor through Flip. Something big enough that Max has no choice except to sniff at the Davenports’ door.” She spoke as though dictating instructions to a junior associate rather than collaborating with an equal.

“And if he bites?”

“Then we win twice,” she said, eyes narrowing. “We get our link to Dr. West and remove the family.”

The man’s lips curled upward in a wry half-smile…the only kind he ever managed.

Her attention returned to her own reflection in the glassy surface of a nearby sedan door…briefly…and then back to him. “And what about the maid?”

He shrugged like a man tossing away the daily trash. “No need to alert the Davenports that we are moving on. I’ll have Flip take care of it.” He reached into his pocket for another cigarette but didn’t light it yet…just rolled it between his fingers, thinking.

She offered a thin smile in return and strode past him toward the elevator bay without looking back, leaving nothing behind except the click-clack cadence of impossible heels and a faint cloud of expensive perfume.

He waited until she was gone before lighting up again.

“Always two steps ahead,” he muttered into his collar, “But we will find you Dr. West, and we will get our weapon.”

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No Rest for the Wicked - Chapter 2