Page 134 of Nash
"Then we get through today." I squeeze her hand. "And tonight, we celebrate."
She leans across the table and kisses me slowly. She tastes like coffee, her copper hair brushing my jaw, and every inch of her feels warmer now that she knows she's chosen.
I give her a ride to Amaranth at eleven. Frankie is already inside, candles lit, her station prepped. She reads the room when we walk in.
"Frankie," I say. "Business as usual today."
"Business as usual," she says. The tone that means she understands everything I'm not saying.
Knox arrives at eleven-thirty. He hands Ruby an earpiece the size of a pencil eraser, shows her how to tap it once to transmit. She puts it in her right ear and adjusts her hair to cover it.
"Testing," Knox says into his phone.
"I hear you," Ruby says. "This is very spy. This is extremely spy. I feel like I should have a codename. Can my codename be Trouble?"
"Your code name is Ruby," Knox says. "Because we're not doing codenames."
"Knox doesn't appreciate the theatrical element of covert operations. This is noted. This will be addressed at a later date."
Knox leaves. I kiss Ruby once, hard, then leave her with the prospect at the door.
I take position with Knox in the van behind the barbershop. One block south. Sightline to the bench through the side mirror.
We wait.
The van is hot. Knox has his laptop open, three feeds running, his fingers moving between them without pause. I sit in the passenger seat with my hands on my knees. The earpiece is in. Ruby hasn't transmitted. The silence means she's doing what I asked. One word when the time comes. Until then, the shop runs. The pencil moves. The candles burn.
Twelve-oh-six. Nothing.
Twelve-ten. A delivery truck passes the bench. Parks at the hardware store. Driver unloads boxes. Leaves. Twelve-fourteen. My earpiece crackles.
Phoenix's man at the diner says, "White pickup. Diner lot. He's parking."
"Copy."
Knox shifts in his seat. His fingers stop moving on the keyboard. Twelve-fifteen. Ruby's voice in my ear. Steady. One word.
"Truck."
She can see the pickup from the shop window. Parked at the end of the block.
Twelve-seventeen. Phoenix's man comes over the comms. "Target exiting vehicle. Ball cap, brown jacket. He's checking his phone."
Twelve-nineteen. His voice returns. "Target on foot. Walking north."
I can see the bench in the mirror. Empty. The laundromat sign blinks above it. A woman comes out of the laundromat with a basket on her hip, walks south, then disappears around the corner.
Twelve-twenty. A shape rounds the diner building on foot. Ball cap low. Brown jacket zipped to the chest. Hands in pockets. Shoulders forward. Head down. The practiced shuffle of someone who has made himself small his entire life.
He reaches the bench. Sits. Knees apart. Hands on his thighs. His head turns toward Amaranth. The same sightline. The same position.
"Visual on target," Kyle says from the south perimeter. "He's at the bench."
"Copy. Hold positions. I'm moving."
I step out of the van. The alley behind the barbershop is narrow, shaded, the asphalt cracked and spotted with old oil stains. I walk north, my boots quiet on the ground, and cut through the gap between the hardware store and the laundromat.
The block opens up.
