Maybe I should be more worried about who I’m about to meet. Technically, it could be some kind of undercover cop, or maybe someone working for Adley. He’s absolutely had people killed for less than poking around in their records.
What I should be doing is following up on the background checks that Bennet asked for this morning. I’m running each name and picture through every database I know of, and it’s likely still going to be running for the next couple hours, but I’m out here wasting time instead of working.
Mostly I’m just pissed, and maybe a little intrigued. Sitting down at the edge of the park fountain, I thumb back through the messages I received this morning.
MM0Undercover919: I think we can help each other. Meet me at the Cross Park fountain at 11:30 today. East side, facing the boardwalk.
TB_EXPLOITS: Who is this and how did you get this number?
MM0Undercover919: See Attachment. See you at 11:30.
The attachment was a portion of Jackson Adley’s bank records that I’ve been trying to get into for months. This tells me two things: One, that this guy knows who I am, where to find me, and that I've been sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. And two, he has the access that I need.
I check my watch. 11:32. The park is fairly empty on a weekday. There are only a few people jogging or heading to the boardwalk for lunch.
I’m getting frustrated and ready to leave when my phone chimes.
MM0Undercover919: Change of plans. Go to the boardwalk, turn left. I’ll be at Grant’s Hot Dog Stand.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
It takes a good five minutes to reach the boardwalk, and another two to reach the dingy-looking cart with a yellow umbrella. I’m assuming this is the right place because there aren’t any other hot dog stands on this end of the boardwalk, and the cheerful-looking man standing behind the cart is wearing an apron that says “Grant”.
So now it’s nearly ten minutes after the time we agreed to meet, and I’m getting pretty upset− this guy is wasting my time. There’s no one here except Grant, the dirty hot dog peddler, and a small, mousy-looking woman intently eating a relish-covered hot dog the size of her face. She catches me looking at her and grins shyly, like I caught her doing something bad. The expression does odd things to my stomach and my cock twitches.
My physical reaction to her surprises me. Flirting is not something that comes naturally to me, but neither do most normal forms of human interaction. My last girlfriend was someone I met playing an online video game, and it was, unsurprisingly, a complete disaster. I’m not proud of it.
“You know that shit is terrible for you, right?” Nice, Tony, good start, criticize her eating habits.
“Mmm hmm, but it’s sooo goooood.” The way she talks about that hot dog, nearly moaning in appreciation of the nasty, dirty tube of whatever byproducts and poison they put in those things, is almost enough to make me want a bite.Of her.
“Do you want one?” My mouth opens a little. Her question catches me in the middle of my brief spiral into being a complete pervert. She looks so innocent and unassuming, which somehow makes it worse and oh-my-god, I’m a bad person.
Clearing my throat and pretending I wasn’t just picturing her salivating over a different kind of tube-shaped meat in her mouth, I chuckle awkwardly. “Uh, no. But thank you. I’m a vegetarian.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?”
She shrugs. “You weren’t what I was expecting.”
“Excuse me?” It takes my brain too long to catch up, but when I finally do, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. “Wait. What?”
“I didn’t expect such an accomplished hacker to be so… I don’t know what the word is. But you don’t look like you spend much time in your mother’s basement.”
“My mother is dead,” is all I can manage to say. This can’t be−
“Mine too. So, uh, do you mind if we walk while we talk?”
I’m still trying to process.
“I’m sorry… you’re ‘MM0Undercover919’?”
“Yup,” she says, popping the p with emphasis. “Try not to look so surprised.”
“Sorry, I− ”
“Need to examine your own biases?”
