Stakeouts were ninety percent waiting.

Ten percent violence.

Slade had long since mastered the first part. Stillness came naturally to him—hours perched on rooftops, breath slow, one eye fixed on the building across the street while the city moved around him like background noise.

His partner handled the waiting differently.

She read.

At first it had been paperbacks stuffed into tactical bags, corners bent and pages worn thin from being opened and closed whenever the target moved. Then thicker books started appearing—history, strategy, novels she tore through faster than most people cleared magazines.

Slade noticed.

Of course he did.

Noticed the way the books took up space in her gear. Noticed the way she had to fold them awkwardly into pockets or wedge them beside ammunition.

So one night before a job, he handed her something small.

Thin.

Black.

She turned it over in her hands, clearly trying to figure out what it was.

“A Amazon Kindle,” he said flatly, already loading a magazine into his rifle.

A pause.

“It’s lighter.”

Another pause.

“Holds more books.”

Slade didn’t look at her when he said it. Just settled back into position, rifle resting steady against the edge of the rooftop.

Across the street, the target’s lights flickered on.

Beside him, pages—or whatever counted as pages now—quietly began to turn.

Stakeouts were long.

Might as well make them efficient.