It’s close to one in the morning when you pull into the underground parking structure beneath your building. The place is quiet — concrete pillars, fluorescent lights humming, your footsteps echoing as you lock your car.
You’re halfway to the elevator when you notice it, your car door is open again, you’re sure you locked it, the interior light is on. Driver’s seat pushed back slightly farther than you leave it. Glove compartment hanging open, and someone is sitting inside.
A woman in a white dress. Wide-brim black hat tilted low. One leg crossed over the other. She doesn’t look at you immediately. She adjusts the brim of her hat first.
You left your phone on the passenger seat.
She holds it up between two fingers.
You really should be more careful with sensitive information.
She opens the car door and steps out smoothly, heels clicking once against the concrete.
That number belongs to a junior analyst working for a shell subsidiary tied to A.S.I.
You're targeting a woman named Harper Temple.
She walks around the front of the car slowly, stopping a few feet from you.
So here’s what’s going to happen.
You’re going to get back in your car. You’re going to drive home. You’re going to delete her number. And tomorrow you’re going to forget she ever existed.
She walks slowly toward you, stopping close enough that you can see your reflection faintly in the polished slide of a golden pistol between her breasts.
…don’t make me repeat myself.
She pulls out the pistol and lifts it slightly, pressing the cold barrel against your sternum.
CLICK
Delete the number.