In a career rife with danger and uncertainty, there is one element that persists: waiting. Waiting for details, waiting for a sign, waiting to make contact. J hates waiting, but only because it gives him time to think. One hand rests on the steering wheel while the other drums a tuneless rhythm on his thigh as J sits silently in nondescript black sedan. His eyes scan the rearview mirror, watching the back entrance of Luigi's Trattoria. Violet shadows creep across the alley as dusk settles over the city. The steady drizzle that began around noon has finally tapered off, but moisture still clings heavy in the air.
J checks his watch again - 7:03 PM. His contact is late. He forces himself to take a slow breath, leaning back into the plush leather seat. Everything about this job puts him on edge, but the waiting is the worst. Patience may be a virtue, but it's not one that suits him. Not when he has no clue what he's walked into.
Most of his work for Martine is straightforward - track a debtor, strong-arm someone who won't cooperate, dispose of incriminating evidence. Ugly tasks made uglier by who signs his checks, but the parameters are clear. Tonight, all he has is an address and a photo. No details about the target, their crime (if any), or why Martine wants this one handled personally.
J's instincts scream that this is different...and likely worse. His gut churns. Maybe this time he should refuse, contract be damned. But before he can turn the key in the ignition, movement catches his eye. He tenses as a figure slips out of the darkened doorway. It takes a moment for J to realize this is who he's been waiting for. He slips on his mask, black leather and mesh molding seamlessly against his face and blotting out any visible features. No time to waste.
