Chapter 2 - The Job Had No Uniform

Marco's office was on the second floor of a restaurant that technically belonged to his cousin and functionally belonged to everyone who was afraid of disappointing him.

Sera arrived at nine the next morning.

Ten thousand dollars sat untouched in an envelope beneath her mattress.

She had considered returning it.

Then the hospital called about the August bill.

So she put on black jeans, a clean shirt, and the boots with the good soles.

The man from the laundromat was waiting by the kitchen door.

Gray jacket.

Large hands.

Expression like weather.

"Name's Rafe," he said.

Sera looked at him.

"That's unfortunate."

Something almost happened to his mouth.

Maybe amusement.

Maybe indigestion.

He led her upstairs.

Marco was at a long table with six men, three phones, two open laptops, and enough coffee to suggest nobody trusted sleep.

He glanced up.

"You're late."

Sera looked at the clock.

8:57.

"No."

One of the men laughed.

Marco didn't.

But his eyes changed slightly.

He dismissed everyone except Rafe.

Then slid a folder toward her.

"Your job is simple."

"That's always how bad jobs are described."

"You watch."

"I do that anyway."

"You tell me when something feels wrong."

"Feelings are expensive."

"Observations, then."

She opened the folder.

Photographs.

Restaurants.

Warehouses.

A townhouse near Lincoln Park.

License plates.

Names.

The first page said:

CAVALLO SECURITY DETAIL.

The second listed employees.

Rafe Moretti.

Security director.

Eight years.

Former Marine.

No disciplinary history.

Sera looked at him.

He stared back.

"He's the one you dropped last night?" she asked.

Rafe's jaw tightened.

Marco nodded.

"Best man I have."

"Then your standards are weird."

Rafe said, "You used surprise."

Sera looked at him.

"You used your hand."

Silence.

Marco leaned back.

"I want you close enough to see what they miss."

"Why?"

"Because men who do the same job for too long stop seeing the room."

Sera flipped another page.

"Who are you expecting?"

"I don't know."

"Then you're not expecting. You're worrying."

Marco watched her.

"Three weeks ago, one of my trucks disappeared."

"Police?"

"No."

"Driver?"

"Found two days later."

"Alive?"

Marco's expression answered before he did.

"No."

Sera closed the file.

"And you think someone inside is giving routes."

"Yes."

"How many people knew the route?"

"Seven."

She tapped the page.

"Then why am I looking at forty-two names?"

"Because people talk."

"That isn't security."

"What is it?"

"Family."

Rafe crossed his arms.

"In our world, that's usually the same thing."

Sera looked at him.

"Then that's your problem."

Marco smiled this time.

Small.

Real.

"Good."

He stood.

"We have lunch downstairs."

"With who?"

"City inspector."

"Why does a city inspector need three bodyguards?"

"He doesn't."

"Then you do."

Marco buttoned his coat.

"You're learning."

The dining room was empty except for one table near the window.

Marco sat facing the entrance.

Rafe took the wall.

Sera took nothing.

She remained standing for three seconds.

Then moved Marco's chair.

He looked up.

"What are you doing?"

"Window reflection."

Rafe frowned.

Sera pointed.

Across the street, a dark SUV was parked beside a delivery zone.

The driver looked forward.

Passenger seat empty.

But in the restaurant window, the reflection showed the back door opening.

A man got out.

Rafe moved.

Sera said, "Don't."

He stopped.

The man outside adjusted a courier bag.

Walked toward the restaurant.

Sera watched his left shoulder.

Too stiff.

"Kitchen entrance?" she asked.

Marco nodded once.

She went through the service hall.

The courier came in carrying a flat cardboard box.

"Delivery for Cavallo."

Sera looked at the label.

No company name.

No barcode.

Just black marker.

"What is it?"

"Pastries."

"From where?"

He hesitated.

Half a second.

Enough.

Sera reached for the box.

He moved his right hand toward his jacket.

She hit his wrist against the doorframe.

The box dropped.

Rafe arrived behind her.

The courier was on the tile before he understood he had fallen.

Rafe pulled a pistol from the man's waistband.

Marco appeared in the hallway.

He looked at Sera.

"Observation."

She looked at the cardboard box.

"People who deliver pastries usually know the bakery."

Rafe opened it.

No pastries.

A phone.

Cheap.

Burner.

It rang.

Marco stared.

Sera said, "Don't answer."

Rafe looked at her.

"Why?"

"Because whoever sent him wants to know how quickly Marco touches the bait."

Marco's eyes stayed on the phone.

It stopped.

Then rang again.

Sera crouched beside the courier.

"Who paid you?"

He shook his head.

Rafe stepped closer.

The man immediately said, "I don't know his name."

Sera looked at Rafe.

"Subtle."

Rafe shrugged.

The courier continued.

"Guy gave me five hundred. Said bring the box in. That's it."

"Where?"

"Alley behind St. Jude's."

"When?"

"Forty minutes ago."

Marco looked at Sera.

"What do you see?"

She looked at the man.

Clean shoes.

No rain on his cuffs.

Cheap jacket.

Expensive watch.

Not his.

Then she looked at the phone.

At the delivery box.

At Rafe.

"Someone wanted the gun found."

Rafe frowned.

"Why?"

"Because if this was an attack, the gun stays hidden until it matters."

Marco's expression changed.

Sera stood.

"This is theater."

"For what?"

She looked toward the dining room.

The inspector's table.

His briefcase.

Empty chair.

The inspector was gone.

So was Marco's laptop from upstairs.

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Sera looked at him.

"To make everyone run toward the wrong door."