She glanced toward the windows. The sun had set only a half-hour ago, and the dinner crowd was thick on the sidewalks; a lovely, cool spring evening had lured everyone to outdoor dining patios and a local production ofMy Fair Ladyover at the theater. In the soft glow of the coffeeshop, one reflected in the window glass, she could see herself easier than she could see the people passing back and forth. She saw clothes, hair colors; had impressions, but she couldn’t have offered a description to a sketch artist. Though she guessed someone with a mask and a bag full of spray paint would stand out.
“What are the guys at Bell Bar gonna do?” she asked, turning back to him.
He made a face. “Honestly? Who knows.”
~*~
They’d taken the glass out of the window, and kept all the lights off, so the second floor opening that overlooked the street below would be the yawning black of a vacant window; unremarkable and unlikely to draw attention. Reese crouched just inside the frame, dressed head-to-toe in black, his face concealed by grease paint.
Beside him, Tenny swiped at his own painted face.
“Don’t,” Reese admonished. “You’ll wipe it off.”
“I’mtryingto wipe it off. It fucking smells.”
“It’s practical,” Reese countered. “It’s keeping us hidden.”
“This is the definition of a low-risk op. It’s zero risk. Do you seriously think these spray paint wankers are going to spot us up here?”
“We don’t want them to recognize us when we drop down.”
“They’ll be too busy pissing themselves to take note.”
“Tenny.” It was a warning.Drop it. But he could hear that his voice wasn’t quiet stern; something like affection colored its edges. A new habit: saying his name like that. Now that Tennywasa proper name, and not just a number. It felt right to use it more, and so Reese did. The change had been remarkable. Reese didn’t know that others saw it; Tenny was still insolent, and caustic; still rolled his eyes and acted like everyone around him was a hopeless idiot. But he could see and feel the change. A faint glint in his eyes, the slightest softening of a smirk. His insults felt more like conversation now, and not like attacks. Tenny just…wasthat way. Reese had learned he didn’t mind.
Mostly.
“You’re chewing gum.”
Beside him, Tenny blew an obnoxiously large bubble with it, and then popped it. Loudly. A second later he went, “Ugh, shit.” And spit the pink wad out through the window. “It got paint on it.”
“Serves you right.”
Tenny’s eyes cut over, the blue of them bright as glass in the gloaming. They narrowed in an affected sort of scrutiny; he might be a good actor, but Reese was learning what was show and what was the rare, human real of him. “You’re getting better at banter.” It was said like an accusation.
“I’ve been studying my environment. And reading.”
Tenny’s gaze narrowed another fraction. “You really are starting to understand humor. It’s terrible.”
Reese felt a bare smile touch his own lips.
A paint-smudged finger appeared in his face. “See? Stop doing that.”
“I thought I was supposed to work on controlling my face.”
“Not to me! It’s for running ops.” The little twitch in his cheek betrayed his own threatening smile, and Reese felt warm inside, like he so often did these days. A comforting sort of internal flush that came with knowing someone who no one else did. In so many things – little day-to-day, social, ritualistic things – he was ill-equipped and left out. But he was the only one who could read Tenny like this, and that felt like a hard-won skill.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he shoved all non-relevant thoughts aside. “Someone’s coming.”
They both glanced down toward the sidewalk. Pedestrians used the sidewalks frequently here, and now, just before the dinner hour, a variety of couples, families, and friend groups tracked past in front of the boarded-up storefronts. Reese spotted their marks right off: two males, both wearing black hoodies, heads down and on a swivel, scanning nervously back and forth. Both of them carried backpacks. When one reached to tug at his hood, Reese spotted the black, leather shine of a glove.
“They’re not subtle,” Tenny remarked in a whisper. “Makes our job easier.”
Reese nodded, and put a foot up on the empty window ledge. Tenny did the same. He could hear the way their breathing fell in sync; felt the vibration of Tenny’s readiness as an echo of his own. The thing about it was: Tenny liked working. Reese had always found a kind of quiet pleasure in knowing he’d executed his task neatly and efficiently, but some of Tenny’s feral thrill for the hunt was starting to rub off on him, he feared. Working as a pair was an entirely different experience, emotionally, than working as a lone wolf.
Below them, the targets moved into position, trying to shrink up against the front of Bell Bar’s boarded windows. A family was passing, and they watched them, waiting for them to move down the sidewalk, hands clutching their backpack straps.
Reese traded a look with Tenny, whose expression, beneath the grease paint stripes, had gone tight and ready, eager, all business. He nodded.
