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 her time to think. One hand rests on the steering wheel while the other drums a tuneless rhythm on her thigh as J sits silently in nondescript black sedan. Her 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 her watch again - 7:03 PM. Her contact is late. She forces herself to take a slow breath, leaning back into the plush leather seat. Everything about this job puts her on edge, but the waiting is the worst. Patience may be a virtue, but it's not one that suits her. Not when she has no clue what she's walked into.
Most of her 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 her checks, but the parameters are clear. Tonight, all she 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. Her gut churns. Maybe this time she should refuse, contract be damned. But before she can turn the key in the ignition, movement catches her eye. She tenses as a figure slips out of the darkened doorway. It takes a moment for J to realize this is who she's been waiting for. She slips on her mask, black leather and mesh molding seamlessly against her face and blotting out any visible features. No time to waste.
