Fucking hell, the person he knew on the fifth floor must be another spy. The asshole had a fucking spy here! Did he spy on all his dancers?
Shit. The longer I took to get this over with, the sooner he’d discover the truth.
If I hadn’t gotten most of my senses fucked out of me under the maple tree earlier, I would’ve thought it better to wait at this window with my rifle and snipe him.
As he dipped his head and folded into his car, I realized how sloppy and inept I’d gotten since I came to San Fran and saw him again for the first time in twelve years. Then when I finally got close to him, with tons of opportunity, his touch, his kiss, had obliterated everything I’d ever learned in training, having me thinking like a smitten teenager instead of an assassin.
The easy kill I could have gotten at this window was gone.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
As his car began reversing out of the lot, I snapped out of it and beat feet out of the apartment, taking the stairs instead of the elevator so I wouldn’t be too far behind.
In the residents’ parking lot, I fished for my bike keys from my messenger bag and mounted my matt black Kawasaki Ninja, jerked on my helmet and roared the thing to life.
Chad knew my car, but not my bike. Plus he’d be more suspicious of a car tailing him than a biker speeding ahead of him.
Waiting until I knew he’d driven a decent distance from the complex, I sped out behind him. I should have sped out sooner, because Chad’s R8 was eating up the miles like he was auditioning forFast & the Furious. I wasn’t expecting him to be driving this ferociously fast. If I hadn’t been the only other person behind him in the dead of the night, I’d think he was racing someone. Seriously, the guy was driving like he played way too muchNeed for Speedvideo games.
Lucky for me, with his kind of madcap driving, I didn’t have to speed ahead and keep circling to avoid suspicions. All I had to do was ride at moderate speed and keep up.
Decelerating, I let him race with himself and lead the way.
The R8 hot-wheeled the quiet streets for a good eight minutes before I realized he was heading to Excelsior instead of Russian Hill. More errands or delivery? Who got this busy in the middle of the night? Unless he was up to something. On to someone.
I followed at a safe distance.
When he turned onto Mission Street, the R8 started to slow down. Figuring his destination was somewhere on this street, I gunned it, zinged past the R8, and broke through a red light like any other cocky biker. To kill time, I rode around for a few minutes, circled onto Ruth Street, zoomed past Dragon House and was back on Mission Street.
Chad’s R8 was parked along the curb of a rundown 24-hour fast-food restaurant that was squeezed between a closed liquor store and a vacant store which had all kinds of spray can graffiti, chipped paint and smashed-out windows. The fast-food restaurant was the only place alive on the street.
Parking a couple blocks from the R8, I hopped off the bike, hooked my helmet on the right handle, and furtively shadowed up the blocks to the crappy fast-food joint.
Slipping behind a white Volkswagen delivery van on the opposite side of the street, I peeked over a rear-view mirror and scanned inside the restaurant through the scratchy plexiglas window marked Hugh’s 24hr Jerk Joint in fading red letters.
Chad, now wearing a black ball cap, stood at the order counter talking to a dark-skinned man with shoulder-length locks on the other side of the counter.
Edging from behind the Volkswagen, I ducked my head and sidled diagonally across the street to the vacant store instead of the restaurant. Once there, I leaned against the column separating the store from the restaurant and subtly ease sideward until I gained clearer view into the restaurant.
Chad was still at the counter, so I scanned the rest of the dingy place. The only other customers inside were a young couple who seemed no older than eighteen, who were both completely oblivious to everything around them as they sucked face, all arms and legs tangled around each other on a single chair they shared.
My eyes jumped back to Chad and the man over the counter, who seemed to be the owner, was laughing at something Chad said, slapping his palm to the counter as if he’d just heard the sweetest joke.
Chad shoved a wad of cash across the surface, which I was pretty damn sure was a lot more than what anything on the menu board cost, yet the man rang the wad of bills into the cash register like it was just another sale. Right.
While he did that, Chad walked off to the left of the restaurant and turned down a narrow, dimly lit corner which had a chipped blue sign that read “Restrooms”.
Taking the opportunity of catching him vulnerable with his pants down and his dick in his hand, literally, I pushed off the column and barged into the restaurant, catching the low beat of Bob Marley’sWaiting in Vainstreaming through the speakers.
The man behind the counter glanced up, and his face split into a customer service smile.
“Empress—” he started to greet, but with a grim expression, I pointed to the menu board and held up three fingers to indicate I needed the number three combo—whatever the hell it was.
Dipping into my front pocket, I took out a fifty and slapped it on the countertop, then pointed in the direction of the restrooms to let him know I’d be back.
The man smirked at my non-verbal communication, but nodded nevertheless and went about cashing my order.
I slipped around the ridiculously narrow hallway, while reaching into my messenger bag. The dim light flickered at three-second intervals, and I glanced up and noticed the socket was broken, a naked bulb hanging precariously from a tangle of electrical wires.
