That Feeling You Get: The Hunter Series, #1

By Aaron Michael Ricossa

Luisa Stein may be a promising young investigative journalist, but this story she has accidentally walked into might just be the end of her relationship, her job or even her life.

Sitting on a train to an unknown destination, with a strange man who has given her no name, Luisa wonders how she ended up in this situation. Was it the mystery of the invitation? Or was it the trance-like feeling that made every hair on her body stand on end when this man asked her to join him.

Before she has a chance to figure it out, she is thrust into a world of action and mystery that she can't seem to pull herself away from. Is this all for a story or is this exactly where Luisa was always meant to be?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aaron Ricossa
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9788797276518

Book preview

Chapter 1

The yellow light falling from above does little to dampen the darkness. It lights the walking path, sure, but it misses everything else. It misses the grass, the bushes, and the side of the building currently being scaled by a shadow. Security here, few know, is far more than adequate. Dodging lights is not the issue. Problem number one begins with security cameras equipped with night vision. The one covering this particular edge of the building is effectively disabled. Not with spray paint or disconnected, that would be too obvious. Intermittent static and flickering serve to both get the guard’s attention and keep the feed jumbled enough to not see the man in a blacked-out bodysuit making his way up the south facing wall. This disruption is simple enough with a Wi-Fi transmitter interrupting the feed.

The young security guard on duty is sure to have noticed the camera trouble almost immediately. It will take him no more than five minutes to investigate the camera. Upon seeing no damage, he will return to call in the problem to IT. Before he returns, the camera needs to be back to running correctly. This gives five minutes to scale the wall, remove and slide in through one of the skylights above the security office, and import a necessary software into their computer system. No easy task. Yet as the guard sits back into his chair and rotates around to take a look at his security feeds, the camera is no longer flickering and the download is complete.

What the guard doesn’t notice is the effectively invisible man walking down the hall toward the boss’s office. Now in a green bodysuit from head to toe, the man moves with immunity from cameras. His chromakey software that is set up to target all green and replace it with footage from just moments ago, solves problem number two. This means he can move undetected but if another employee is to walk down the hall, the cameras will pick it up just like normal, assuming they aren’t wearing a solid light green suit.

Problem number three, that’s where the saying ‘better lucky than good’ comes into play. The target is in the boss’s office and when he leaves for the night, he’ll undoubtedly take it with him. That leaves one option, and hopefully the food truck he paid to post up outside the building around dinner time worked. With just a little research it was easy to find out the boss’s favorite food is shawarma. The truck’s Chef was then paid to give the boss his food laced with diuretics. Harmless, but it would surely make the man pee all night.

The gamble pays off as the man watches the boss, clearly frustrated, get up from his desk and hurry to the hallway bathroom. This is unlikely to be his first or his last visit for the night. With the office now empty, the man slips in, acquires his target, and decides to test his luck. He remains in the office, eyes closed, breathing deeply. He knows the boss only left to pee, but if this works it is worth the risk. In and out he breathes like a man with all the time in the world. His eyes slowly open, moving from side to side, up and down, inspecting his surroundings. His eyes land on the image of a young woman sitting on the desk. She’s pretty in a relaxed, down-to-earth sort of way. Clearly a girlfriend. The frame sits next to his computer and is surely looked at numerous times a day. What is odd is that the picture is just ever so slightly crooked. There is no way this is not noticed and fixed, unless it was done recently.

The man picks up the picture frame and notices the back tabs that bend to hold the stand in place against the frame, are visibly worn. The back of the frame is removed far more than should be. The man bends back the tabs and pulls the stand away. Behind the picture is a sticky note with a small image and a lone line of writing.

The bang of a door closing in the hallway snaps the man to the realization that he’s taken far too long. Glancing above the frosted glass, he can see the boss walking down the hallway toward his office. Dropping the picture back in place the man’s mind runs wild for a way out. He has only seconds.

The boss opens the door, lightly bumping into the man as he reaches for the handle.

Oh…sorry. Didn’t see you there, says the Boss.

Not a problem sir. Just emptying the trash for the night, the man says keeping his head down as he slips out the door in a trench coat, courtesy of the boss.

Without the green face mask and with the coat covering his green bodysuit, he’s completely visible to the cameras. An unfortunate turn of events, but improvising is part of the game. He moves quickly, knowing that it won’t take long for the boss to realize what he has taken, hidden in the trash can. A pair of pants and shoes snagged from the security guards locker, along with a hat lifted from a rack in the break room, and the trench coat taken from the boss, gives the man the look of an employee leaving the office admirably late as he walks out the front door.

Chapter 2

How did I get myself into this situation? The thought plagues my mind. It depends where stories really begin. Isn’t everything that has ever happened to someone, connected to every single decision and event that has already happened in their life. Because if one single thing were different, they might never have been in this place, with this person, at this time.

So how did I end up on this train?

Well, it could be because when I was six, just before my father died, he bought me a little toy engine, which I still have today.

Or it could be because when I was in college, I had wanted to take a year off of school and travel Europe by rail, though I never manned up to do it.

Or the most immediate of reasons could be because I was forced on the train by a man who has given me no name. For the moment I’ve decided to call him Jordan. His eyes are masked, always in shadow from the low bill of his hat. His skin is weathered and creased but not unhealthy, like a man who’s experienced more of life than most. His long dark clothes give him a nineteen-twenties gangster vibe. And finally, his shoes. I wouldn’t normally pay any attention to a man’s shoes, but these caught my eye and made me wonder. What kind of man goes out wearing a black trench coat, a newsies hat pulled down over his eyes, and shiny white Jordans? The shoes stand out like a polar bear walking down Broadway. Hence the name Jordan.

So, I’m not sure exactly which of these three events is the true reason for why I’m on this train, but I’m leaning towards the last.

What surprises me more than anything, is how easy it was for him to get me on the train. I didn’t refuse. I didn’t fight. I didn’t even question him. I just did exactly what he asked. I was simply walking past the train station, just as the final whistle blew for boarding and he walked up to me, so relaxed, so under control and so confident. Join me, he said as he placed a gentle hand on my back and motioned to the door. His voice was soft and calming, his gaze strong and comforting and his hand was so warm. When he spoke I felt goosebumps prickle over my skin. A feeling of warmth spreading from his hand, filling my body, my muscles relaxing, my breath slowing. I was nearly in a trance.

In a blink, the next thing I knew the train sped away, us both on board. Neither of us has said a word since. That was over an hour ago.

Okay fine, I guess I wasn’t forced on the train but to be honest, despite his words being phrased more as a question than an order, I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice in the matter. It’s hard to explain other than to say, though his question seemed sincere, it felt almost rhetorical, as if he already knew I would join him and he was just waiting for me to realize it myself.

I’m not stupid. So what am I doing? I know as a young woman I shouldn’t be following strange older men onto trains in a direction I don’t know, to a destination that I haven’t been told. At twenty-one years old, the man could be three times my age. But despite being a complete stranger, he didn’t feel strange. I didn’t feel uncomfortable or scared, I actually felt the exact opposite.

Hell, maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’ve finally lost my last marble and I’m on the slow winding journey to the loony bin. Or maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where every single moment of my life, every single decision I have made, and everything that has ever happened to me has been leading to. Does fate exist? Is destiny real? Do we all have a moment in life where our purpose is placed at our feet and all we have to do is take that step forward in order to realize our true reason for being on this planet? I don’t know. But if this is mine, I’m sure as hell not going to miss it.

The train car rattles and rumbles, it tosses and turns, and not once has Jordan looked up from his scribbles. His tiny pencil, undoubtedly whittled down from extreme use, has only come to a standstill momentarily, to scratch his head, to erase a small mistake, or to ponder what’s next for the briefest of moments. A well-kept, nicely trimmed, gray beard twitches with the soft mumbling of his inner contemplation. Page after page he flips that tiny notepad, going back and forth. He even flips it upside down a few times, perhaps to get a new perspective.

Could he have possibly forgotten about me? Forgotten about the stranger invited to join him on this most peculiar of nights. Almost immediately after thinking it, the thought is gone. Though he has yet to speak to me, look at me, or acknowledge me in any way, I can feel he is keeping track of every move I make, everything I look at, and every confused look I shoot him.

Being more than a bit unfamiliar with the area, I have no idea where we are heading. The last stop that I recognized has come and gone fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago. How far does this train even go?

The car door behind me slides open and I glance back to see an inspector saunter in, checking each passenger’s ticket as he moves closer. Shit. I don’t have a ticket. What even happens to you if you don’t have a ticket? Do they stop the train and kick you off? Does Jordan know I don’t have a ticket? Does he have a ticket? He doesn’t strike me as the type to worry either way. Shit, he’s here. I grab my bag and fumble through it looking for some money. Why do I have to be so damn poor? Eureka! I pull out a crinkled bill that was smooshed at the bottom of my bag to hand to the man, but as I look up, he’s gone, moved on down the car. I glance at Jordan, who scribbles away. Did he have a ticket for me? Did the inspector just skip us? What the hell happened? Slouching in confusion and defeat, I realize this adventure is happening with or without my help.

I’m not sure if it’s because for once I no longer have a headache, the smooth rocking of the train, or simply because I’m bored of being ignored, but I can feel myself slowly drifting off to sleep. Heading in a direction I do not know, with a complete stranger, should be alarming, and yet I feel the friendly grip of sleep pulling my eyelids closed.

As consciousness fades, my dreams come to life.

…I feel the cold and see my breath in the frigid air. I look down and my hands are sweating. Nerves. I refuse to look to my side. The others, whoever they are, don’t concern me. I need to concentrate. I need it to come. Without it, an impossible task lays ahead. With it, I’ll finally be able to see what I can truly do. But it’s not coming.

Whether it’s the cold, the nerves, or just my lack of experience, I don’t know. I just know, I need it…NOW! People laugh, people talk, but I’m not really listening. I’m in my head, fear growing with every second. Then I feel a hand land lightly on my back, and everything changes. Who is this man? And what is this feeling? I want to turn, see the man’s face, but it’s too late. I’m already committed forward, whether I’m ready or not. I hear the words never stop moving, then a horn bellows, and it begins."

I snap awake, my heart pumping as the train’s horn bellows again. My mind has to do a double-take to accept the unfamiliar surroundings and remember where I am.

The train’s passengers have dwindled down over how many stops, I don’t know. But the few left behind all seem to be getting off now. Last stop maybe?

Without a word, Jordan is up and walking out. Was he even going to wake me up? Shit, he’s getting away! I rush to my feet and hurry off the train. The small crowd obscuring my vision of the stranger I’m now racing after, despite having no idea why. Just as I get past a slow moving couple that are clearly on vacation and have no idea where they’re going, I see Jordan turn a corner. What the hell, is he trying to lose me? I now find myself actually running to keep up with someone that clearly doesn’t care if I fall behind or not.

As I finally get him back in view, I notice for the first time that he’s carrying some sort of satchel. Did he always have that? I can’t remember. This whole night seems like some sort of crazy blur. With one hand he pulls out his cell phone answering a call, with the other, he flags down the lone taxi waiting in front of the station. Setting the bag down to open the door, Jordan steps into the taxi. He looks back and our eyes meet for the first time. To my surprise, an audible sigh of relief escapes my lips. He’s waiting. I slow down to a quick walk, just as he slams the door shut and the taxi speeds away. What the hell!

Staring in disbelief I watch as the stranger who got me to join him on a train using only two words, speeds away, ditching me with no clue what time it is or where in Europe I even am. That’s when I finally notice it, his bag sitting alone in front of the deserted train station. What’s going on here? Did he do that on purpose or did he merely forget it in his rush to desert me? Despite not wanting to, somehow I feel like I know the answer to that question.

* * *

The cool air passes through the open window of the lone cab. Viraj sits, bored, hunched over his phone. Ten minutes he’s been sitting here, still no contact from the person who called in for a pickup. He knows he has a better chance just waiting here than driving around aimlessly. Summer nights like these seem to be hard. This time of night there’s never any fares. The few people who arrive hop on their bikes and head home, never thinking maybe a taxi ride would be nice. Plus with being new to town, just over a week now, he’s sure the best bet is to stay in the locations he knows. At this point, he figures the caller is a no show and he’ll just take the first person who wants a ride.

Short, thin, and young, Viraj might look like a kid sitting in his father’s cab, if it wasn’t for the wispy facial hair he grew just for the reason of looking a bit older. After beating another level of an old-fashioned Frogger game on his phone, he glances up, catching the eye of a lone man talking on his cell phone and flagging him down as he approaches.

The engine turns and the cab meets the man at the edge of the turnaround. The back door opens and the man begins to step in.

Hello sir, my name is Viraj. He says in English with an Indian accent. He hasn’t lived here since he was a small kid and doesn’t feel comfortable using anything but English yet. Where are we heading tonight?

No response. Viraj turns and sees the man paused, halfway in the cab, his body rotated back to the station and facing a woman as she awkwardly tries to run toward them.

It’s no problem sir, we’ll wait.

The door slams with the man inside.

Drive

But sir

The man holds out a crisp American hundred-dollar bill. Viraj glances back at the woman who has now stopped, just staring at them in disbelief, then speeds away. Feeling a bit guilty sucks but money has a way of helping.

Where to?

Without looking up from his notepad, the man replies, Take a left.

Chapter 3

What am I doing? What am I doing?

The dim streetlights slowly move overhead as I pass one glowing section of sidewalk at a time. The satchel draped over my shoulder is heavy, though the action of taking it weighs on me even more. The likelihood of me ever seeing that man again is astronomical, yet I took the bag as if I could return it to him on my way home. I’m not a thief, so why did I take it? Why did I feel some urge, some duty to retrieve the bag left by some man I don’t know, who had only said two words before ditching me? I obviously can’t answer that question. I have no idea why I took it. And yet, I feel like I know this bag, like I’ve seen it before, smelled the rich leather before. It’s familiar in the same way a business’s logo is familiar, but you can’t quite place it without its name beneath.

Surely I could have gone back inside the station and found a train returning the way I came, but I didn’t. I took the man’s satchel and began walking down the street as if I wasn’t completely lost. Now I am alone, at night, in an unknown city with stolen property. Great.

Stopping at a red light, I pull the satchel in front of me. The main compartment is locked, keypad, no use in trying to guess the combo. The back flap has nothing in it, but as I slide my hand in the front flap, I feel something round and rough. The light turns green and I aimlessly walk across the street as I pull out what appears to be a cardboard coaster. A big ‘O’ with ‘Learys’ cutting across it is stamped on the front. A bar? Here perhaps? I pull out my cell phone to punch the name into my maps when I stumble over a crack in the sidewalk. As I catch my footing, I look left and right before crossing the smaller street. Impossible. To the right, down an alley, jutting into the dark night is a neon glowing sign. ‘Learys’ slashes through a big ‘O’. The same exact logo.

The sound of a dumpster being slammed closed alerts me to just how eerily quiet it is. My head was so wrapped in the strange events that had just taken place, that I haven’t even noticed how empty the streets are. The relaxing comfort I had strangely felt with Jordan on the train is definitely gone now. I’m not sure what frightens me more, the calm I felt on the train or the unnerving cold I feel now. Either way, I think I need a drink and this bar might just have some answers.

Inside, the smell of stale smoke lingers in the air. It’s masked only by the temporary smell of far too much alcohol as I pass the few wary drinkers refusing to go home, back to their lives they’re here trying to escape. A large chair in the back seems like as good a spot as any to sit and think.

With the satchel sitting on the end table beside me, my mind wanders to the man who left it behind. Already forgetting details, I will my mind to concentrate. What, if anything, do I know about him? Old and gray, though handsome in a ‘world’s most interesting man’ kind of way. Tall and strong, he appears like he’s in very good shape, not just for his age, but for anyone. An almost overly composed demeanor coupled with a confidence that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing. Except for one thing…his notepad. The way he scribbled away, flipping the pages back and forth. He seemed lost, his mind racing for answers but always coming up short.

Ma’am, hello ma’am? The bartender jostles me from my thoughts. Did you want anything to drink? he says, setting a coaster that matches perfectly to the one in my pocket, next to the bag.

Has an older man come in here? Black trench coat, white basketball shoes?

Um…I don’t know, the bartender says with more than a little confusion on his face.

I’m sorry, I’m in my own little world, I say, trying to focus my mind. Uh. Sure. I’ll have a rum and coke please.

No sooner had the bartender left, I hear a soft voice from behind my chair.

Scribblings, you say?

What? Spinning around, I notice that behind my chair sits an identical chair facing the opposite direction.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you were mumbling to yourself.

A round face pokes out from behind the chair.

Something about scribblings on a notepad.

I didn’t realize I was talking out loud. Sorry.

The bartender returns, setting the drink down on the end table next to the satchel. With a quick thank you, he’s gone again.

My Nana does that too you know, quite annoying actually.

Excuse me?

Oh no, I didn’t mean you. Her. My Nana. She can be quite annoying, sometimes.

Okay.

Without ever actually standing up, the pudgy young man lifts his chair, holding it against his butt, and waddles around sitting back down in front of me. He nearly knocks my glass and the satchel off the table as he bumps it going by. Plump and seemingly uncoordinated, the man looks more like an overgrown child. His eyes have a kindness and his smile is so infectious that despite the strangeness of the night and my current situation, I find myself wanting to return his smile.

Not that I don’t love my Nana. Cause I do. She raised me. She’s just by herself at home and I spend a lot of time there with her. Every day it’s the same, some shirt with birds on it, the newspaper, remote, and coffee. You see she loves watching the news while reading the newspaper. Why at the same time? I’ll never know. Then she falls asleep halfway through, leaving me to watch the rest alone. But randomly she’ll start mumbling in her sleep. Kind of like what you were doing.

I see.

So what’s the deal with this guy and his scribbling?

How much did I mumble?

Well it’s always a little hard to understand, but here’s what I’ve got so far. A guy was scribbling in a notepad, then ditched you, then you stole his bag. I’m guessing that one there.

I didn’t steal it! I catch myself. I don’t like raising my voice like that. He left it by accident and I took it so that I could return it to him.

Oh, are you meeting him here?

No.

So who’s the guy?

I don’t know.

What’s in the bag?

No idea. It’s locked.

The look of pure confusion on his smooshed little face actually brings a faint glimmer of happiness to my otherwise bizarre night.

By the way, where are we? I ran out of the train station so fast, I didn’t see a sign.

This has got to be the strangest conversation I have ever had…outside of a talk I had with my Nana once where I didn’t realize she was asleep until twenty minutes in.

Apparently, it is now my turn to look on in bewilderment.

Oh sorry. We are currently in Copenhagen and my name is Dan, Dan Harold.

Copenhagen…Denmark?

Is there any other?

Aw man. I must have been asleep for hours. What time is it?

Quarter past three. Where are you coming from? I’m on vacation from America. Jetlag, can’t sleep.

From…uh…Germany. We’re really in Denmark?

Afraid so.

I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.

I stand. Confusion filling me. Rushing to the door, I step outside, take one step and realize I have forgotten the bag in the bar. What is it about this bag?

Just as my hand reaches for the door to head back in, I feel an arm wrap around my waist and yank me backward. A large van with no windows peels away down the deserted street, with me inside.

Chapter 4

On the other side of the world, a young techy sits in a small cubicle. He’s clean shaven and presentable, though his tie has been loosened and his sleeves rolled up. His feet are propped up on the desk with headphones blasting as he attempts the drum solo from In the Air Tonight with two pencils.

Right on the last note, his computer starts beeping and an image pops up on the screen. The picture shows a gray bearded man in a hat and trench coat as he’s stepping into a cab. Lines and dots flash over his face as the computer runs a facial recognition software. For a second, the techy just stares, his face inching closer and closer to the screen. The computer beeps again, a match, and a second image pops up next to the first.

Holy shit. Dropping the pencils and throwing his headphones off, he spins in his chair and grabs the phone, his eyes wide, staring at the picture as he dials. Holy shit!

The phone connects and a man answers. Yes?

Sir. He’s been spotted. A real-time image.

On the other side of the phone a much deeper, raspy voice replies. Alert Stevenson and the team. Also, call Lin, have her in Langley immediately.

Loony Lin?

Just make sure you get her in. I’m on my way.

Chapter 5

The ride is rough but short, very short. After one sharp turn, the van screeches to a halt. The hand over my mouth muffles my screams, but it’s the other hands holding my arms and legs that have me really terrified. How many people are in here? How is it so impossibly dark in this van? And how did this happen so fast?

I hear a quick sharp double knock on what I’m guessing is a center divide between the front and back of the van. The sound of a whispered shush and the hand being removed from my mouth is all that follows. Until flash! A light flicks on and I scream. Not sure why. The light is too bright, my eyes can’t adjust quick enough to see anything yet anyway. The hand quickly clamps back down on my mouth.

The light dims and my eyes adjust. Two men, one in a suit and the other in black military gear, hold me down. As my eyes quickly scan the van, it isn’t what I expect. The van isn’t empty, far from it. There are a few small chairs and enough computer gear to give Best Buy a run for their money.

Once again, I am shushed. Though this time the man with his hand over my mouth, the one in the suit, raises a badge.

Please don’t scream. My name is Will Bruxton, I am an agent of DSIS, the Danish Security and Intelligence Service. You are in no danger.

He lowers his hand and motions to the other man, who slowly releases me. The two men couldn’t look more unalike. The man in the suit is older, in his fifties maybe. He’s lean, a bit too lean causing his suit to sit a little baggy on his shoulders. He smiles, which is in direct contrast to the other man, who does his best to move and sit in a chair in front of a computer. His dark uniform and scowl fit perfectly to his massive body. The man is huge, not fat, just huge.

What the hell is going on? I say, trying to convince myself just as much as them, that I’m not scared.

Ma’am, we would like to answer all your questions, but we’re going to need you to answer ours first. Can you do that?

He motions to a chair as he makes himself more comfortable. Knowing I don’t really have a choice, I take a seat and nod.

Very good. What’s your name?

Luisa Stein.

German?

Yes.

What brings you to Denmark?

More like who. Is this about him? About Jordan?

Jordan?

Yes. The man who, I don’t know, tricked me onto the train and then ditched me here in Denmark.

His name was Jordan?

I pause momentarily. I don’t actually know his name.

Is this the man you are referring to?

Bruxton holds up a photo of a man stepping into a cab.

That’s you, is it not? he continues.

Though my back is turned, I can see myself in the picture. It’s taken from behind me, looking over my shoulder you can see Jordan when he paused for a second and looked back at me, before speeding off in that cab. Why had he done that? And who took this picture?

Yes. Yes. That’s him. Who is he?

He’s a very dangerous man. A killer. But we’re still answering my questions at the moment. What did he say to you? Did he say where he was going?

I can feel my breath shortening. Did he say killer? My chest pain is back. Sharp pain shoots through my heart. I can’t move, I can hardly breathe.

No. I finally get out. "He said nothing to me besides join me. Then he ditched me here. That picture was the last time I saw him. I don’t know anything else, I swear."

Relax, you’re not in trouble here. That is unless you lie to us.

His bag! He left his bag. That one in the picture. I took it. It’s back in the bar. Maybe that’ll have where he’s going in it.

Will looks over at his man, who turns from his computer and nods.

We know about the bag. It’s safe. The man you were talking to has yet to realize you left it behind. Who is he?

No one. I don’t know. Just some stranger who insisted on talking to me.

My mind flashes back to Daniel’s pudgy little face, blabbering on about his Nana. I can’t help but feel a bit guilty for getting him caught up in all this.

No match, says the other agent as his computer beeps with a red X.

His face isn’t in the database, which means he’s either lived the most uneventful, boring life ever; or he’s some sort of government agent.

Thinking back to his round physique, the way he awkwardly almost knocked the whole table over as he tried to move his chair, and his incessant need to bring up his grandmother, I’m pretty confident it’s the first option.

He’s not one of you. He’s a tourist on vacation. He doesn’t know anything.

Grab him and the bag. With the quick order, the other man whips the door open and jumps out, crashing the door closed behind him as the driver does the same.

No. He didn’t do anything. He’s not involved. I say with a bit too much force, causing pain to shoot through my chest again.

I think you should be more concerned about how you’re involved, Ms. Stein.

Chapter 6

Besides a few old rusty dumpsters lined one after another, Viraj’s cab sits alone halfway through a small street barely larger than a back alley. Tires screech in the distance and his head snaps around in fear.

What am I doing here?

He taps the automatic locking mechanism and the car beeps. Obviously, he’s already locked the car and this is just a nervous reaction.

Viraj glances down at a relic of a watch. Clearly old, clearly expensive, and clearly does not belong to him. The family heirloom was left behind as collateral by the man he had just picked up at the train station to ensure his return to the cab. Though its price doesn’t even come close to what was promised if he waited for his mystery guest.

Ten more minutes and I am out of here.

The building to the left of the cab is a laundromat on the first floor, though it seems impossible that something could enter there and come out cleaner, and some low-end housing above. The building on the right contrasts greatly with its neighbor. Refurbished, the apartment complex above looks immaculate as if it is brand new, though the bar below, aged and withering, has clearly stood here for years. Viraj’s passenger, who asked him to remain with the meter running, left fifteen minutes ago. Not a word since.

Chapter 7

You know, you share a name with someone fairly famous in some circles.

Agent Bruxton’s attempt at small talk isn’t comforting as his agents get into position. If he has to talk, can’t it at least be about what’s going on right here, right now?

"The only woman to ever win the Moscow Maze, and she did it