The grocery store smelled like industrial disinfectant and overripe bananas. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, while I grabbed a red basket from the stack by the entrance.
Four aisles ran parallel to the front windows. I started in produce, picking through apples.
Aisle three. A man in a navy windbreaker lingered near the cereal endcap, but his stance was wrong. He balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, head angled to keep me in his peripheral vision while appearing focused on his shopping.
They're using the Prague manual.
I'd written half the surveillance protocols back when I believed we were protecting humanitarian workers from hostile governments. That was before I'd realized we were the hostile government, just outsourced and privatized.
Whoever they'd assigned to ground surveillance hadn't trained for civilian environments. His movements were too precise and reactive. He didn't know how to blend into the natural chaos of people buying groceries.
It was the kind of mistake that happened when you pulled assets from overseas operations and dropped them into suburban America without proper cultural briefing.
I'd helped build Hoyle's network from the inside. That meant I also knew how to burn it down. I pulled out Matthew's phone—the backup device he'd insisted I carry—and placed a fake call while standing in the international foods aisle.
"Hey, it's me." I spoke just loud enough for eavesdropping. "Yeah, I'm at the store. Do we need more of that sauce you like? The one with the weird name?"
I paused, listening to empty air while scanning the security mirror above the frozen section. Navy windbreaker hadpositioned himself at the end of aisle two, close enough to eavesdrop without appearing obvious.
"No, the other one. With the peppers." Another pause. "Fine, I'll get both. See you tonight."
Time to exit.
Instead of heading toward the front registers, I walked directly to the rear of the store, toward the swinging doors markedEMPLOYEES ONLY. A teenage stock clerk glanced up from his clipboard, started to object, and then apparently decided that stopping me wasn't worth the confrontation.
The loading dock was empty except for scattered cardboard boxes and the lingering smell of yesterday's garbage pickup. I checked over my shoulder before stepping outside—the navy windbreaker hadn't followed.
I paused before ducking down an alleyway to return to Matthew's apartment. They'd found me again. I'd been a fool to think I could simply walk away from Hoyle's organization.
People like me didn't get retirement parties and gold watches. We got staged accidents and closed-casket funerals, our deaths serving as object lessons for anyone else who might develop a conscience.
The apartment building came into view, and I spotted the newspaper man's replacement—a jogger stretching against a lamppost, earbuds in, sweat band around his forehead. He looked perfectly legitimate until you noticed that his stretching routine kept him facing Matthew's front entrance while his head moved just enough to track pedestrian traffic.
I slipped into the building through the rear service entrance, using the key Matthew had given me after our third night together.
The silence in the apartment was oppressive. I needed background noise to think clearly. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, I powered on the ancient television. The screenflickered to life with a burst of static before settling on a regional news broadcast.
The anchor was a blonde woman with aggressive shoulder pads. She shuffled papers around while discussing traffic delays on I-405, a water main break in Ballard, and the weather forecast that promised more of Seattle's signature drizzle.
I settled onto the couch, letting her ramble in the background while I ran through contingency plans. How much time did we have to disappear before they decided that Matthew was a liability worth eliminating?
"—breaking news from Portland this morning. Firefighters are still working to contain a warehouse fire that claimed at least one life overnight. KOMO's Janet Rodriguez has more on this developing story."
I turned to look at the screen. Portland was three hours south—close enough to matter, yet far enough to claim separation from Seattle operations. The image cut to a reporter standing in front of a blackened building, with smoke still rising from the collapsed roof. Behind her, fire trucks sprayed water into the skeletal remains of what had once been a three-story brick structure.
I knew the building. The sight triggered every alarm in my nervous system.
I'd spent six weeks there ten months ago, during the transition between an assignment in Serbia and the operation that had eventually led me to Seattle. Safehouse designation Charlie-Seven in Hoyle's filing system.
"—authorities suspect arson, based on the accelerated burn pattern and multiple ignition points found throughout the structure—"
The camera panned across the damage, and I recognized too many details. Even the graffiti was familiar. A red and blue tagshaped like a bird, spray-painted on the brick wall beside the rear entrance.
All of it was gone, reduced to ash and twisted metal.
"—one confirmed fatality, with authorities continuing to search for several individuals reported missing—"
The camera cut back to the studio anchor. At the bottom of the screen, a news ticker scrolled past with updates on city council meetings and sports scores.
