Here’s to hoping there are no more shocks on the agenda.
“Sit,” the dark-skinned male standing behind the desk on the opposite side of the room commands without bothering to look up.
I give the white chair closest to me a quick once-over – in case this is the beginning of some sort of test – prior to taking the seat. Stifling the involuntary groan it conjures is difficult, but not impossible.
Fuck, this shit is soft. I didn’t even know they made things that could reach this level of comfortable. I bet the damn thing cost more than my custom shower system including the installation fee.
Despite how easy it would be to get lost in the luxury engulfing me, I keep my senses as sharp as I can, noting the three other empty chairs around the small square glass coffee table, the tablet that is placed in the center of it, and the slightly rumpled corner of the rug where I’m assuming some sort of emergency alarm trigger is located.
Something tells me that’s not the only “come rescue me” button in here.
I’d bet the price of this chair that he also has an escape tunnel.
Maybe underneath this chair?
Too much time for my liking passes between the moment I entered and the one where he finally speaks. “Garden rake through the testicles?”
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.
The goddamn cleanup crew gossips worse than my thirteen-year-old niece.
I didn’t need to know Dereck was getting an over the pants handy from a non-binary eighth-grader any more than the other employees in this building needed to know that I used a farm tool to get the job I was hired to do done.
“Speak.”
Keeping my attention planted forward, I civilly correct, “Pitchfork to the chest, Sir.”
Another uncomfortable stretch of silence appears painting a pattern I can’t say I care for.
He already abruptly hijacked my afternoon by sending me an urgent message that left me with forty-eight minutes to get dressed and here. The least he could do is to get the point of why a little faster and fuck off with these theatrics.
“The client…,” his voice slowly begins again, “was she a moaner or a screamer?”
My face twitches in bewilderment. “Excuse me, Sir?”
“The client,” Number Four repeats in the same tone but with more emphasis as though I truly hadn’t heard him, “was she a moaner…,” the sound of footsteps approaching is followed by the end of the sentence spouted for a second time, “or a screamer?”
“I wouldn’t know, Sir.”
“And the client prior to that one, who you followed around Italy for three weeks during her promotional tour for some perfume,” his deep voice drags out, “she was a super-model, correct?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“From Bolivia?”
“Peru, Sir.”
“And was she a scratcher or a biter?”
His once more misplaced question causes my eyebrows to twitch in puzzlement. “Unknown, Sir.”
“The client before her-”
“I do not sleep with my clients, Sir, so any further questions regarding their sexual preferences whether it be their actions, tastes, or identification choices would be a waste of your time as well as mine.”
He finally comes into view allowing me to truly drink him in for the first time.
From a distance, he radiates a sense of intimidation; however, up-close it’s irrefutably more potent. His large frame reminds me of Tank’s, although slightly scaled-down in width and height. The light coming from the crystal chandelier above reflects off not only his waxed dome but his equally clean-cut face. There isn’t a wrinkle to be seen on his suit pants. Not a stain to be spotted on his dress shirt. And the opulence being given off by the expensive watch ticking on the wrist of his whiskey-holding arm is enough to blind the average person.
Number Four wants the world to know he’s refined.
And not to be fucked with.
Got it.
The question is…why am I – of all fucking people – the one he wants to see.
After having a casual sip of his beverage, he inquires, “Drink?”
I decline politely with a headshake.
“What’s your preferred poison?”
“Tequila, Sir.”
The smallest sneer is presented in response.
“But I don’t drink on the clock, Sir.”
He slowly nods and slips his free hand into his pocket. “I have a job offer for you, Bradford.”
Well, that beats the fuck out of being possibly fired for creative killing methods.
The news regarding my summoning should loosen the knot in my stomach, yet for unidentified reasons, it tightens it instead.
Fuck. Me.
“The payout for the assignment is more than enough to retire you.”
“At thirty-five, Sir?”
Number Four smirks his amusement. “Assuming you don’t blow it all in Vegas or AC or a high roller room in Macau? Yes.”
I enjoy a bit of craps, but I’ve never lost more than a car note in one sitting.
Huh.
If he knows I gamble, then he probably knows that shit, too.
“The operation is off the books.”
Concern instantly sinks its claws into the back of my neck.
“There’ll be no true trail of this. It’ll all be smoke and mirrors. A job hidden within a job hidden within a job like some Christopher Nolan directed shit. As far as everyone outside of you, me, Number Three, and the target, this assignment, hell, this conversation never actually happened. You and I met today to discuss the company line we want rehearsed for the tabloid frenzy that ‘Hit Me Crazy One More Time’ is ‘causing by spreading her ‘brush with death’ across social media.”
“Understood, Sir.”
“The details of the objective will not be known prior to acceptance.” Another sip is swiftly stolen of his drink. “You won’t be going into it blind; however, the nature of the matter is so classified that I am only willing to share it with the agent assigned to the task.”
Curiosity manages to swap places with unease. “Understood, Sir.”
His glass hand motions to the tablet on the table. “Accept.” The next movement is made with his head tipping to the direction I came in. “Decline.”
Not seeing any real need to overthink the once-in-a-lifetime type of offer, I reach for the device and turn it on. “Password, Sir?”
Number Four’s arrogance is palpable. “Your name.”
Of course, he knew I’d fucking take this.
Who in their right mind wouldn’t?
The payout alone is enough to have me willing to sacrifice a fucking kidney or whatever twisted shit I know awaits, but the fact it’s coming straight from the top tells me not accepting, isn’t really a choice. Not accepting would mean in the coming days, I magically wouldn’t pass my eval, suspending me from the field, and inevitably beginning a short process from being employed by the best private security firm in the world to being a Saturday night bouncer at the nearest knocker locker.