Ethan
The rain has been falling since before dawn. Not the kind that rushes or pounds — just settles in, seeps into everything, makes the city slow and careless.
I like it that way.
I stand across the street from the glass-front café, collar up, hands loose at my sides. No umbrella. No phone. I don't need either. I watch reflections instead — windows, puddles, chrome bumpers — rebuilding the street in fragments.
Two exits. One alley. A bus stop with three people pretending not to watch each other.
Target inside.
Mara Holloway sits alone near the window, fingers wrapped around a mug she hasn't touched in ten minutes. Late twenties. Brown coat. Dark hair pulled back like she doesn't want it in her face. Her back is straight, shoulders tight. Every time the door opens, her eyes lift.
She knows.
Maybe not the details yet — but her body already understands what her mind hasn't caught up to. That something's wrong. That the world shifted half an inch off center.
I check my watch. Thirty seconds.
Her file is thin. Too thin. Three nights ago, a multi-car pileup on I-5. One fatality. Her car rolled twice and stopped inches from a concrete barrier. Doctors say she shouldn't have walked away.
Accident on paper.
But someone paid good money to make sure she doesn't get another chance.
The café door opens again.
I see it before anyone else — the hesitation, just long enough to scan the room. Gray jacket. Baseball cap pulled low. His right hand is already disappearing into his pocket.
I move.
I cross the street fast, timing the light, stepping inside the café just as he pulls something metallic free.
"Down," I say.
Not loud. Not shouted. A command meant for one person.
Mara looks up.
Confusion flashes across her face — then instinct kicks in. She ducks. The chair screeches back. Glass explodes behind her.
The gunshot gets swallowed by rain and screaming.
I hit the shooter hard, driving him sideways into a table. Coffee goes everywhere. The gun skitters across the floor. My elbow comes down once. Twice. He goes slack.
Sirens wail in the distance. Someone else has already called it in.
I don't wait.
I turn and find her crouched on the floor, breathing hard, eyes wide — but focused. Alive.
"Time to go," I say.
"Who are you?"
"Someone you're coming with."
She studies me for a beat longer than I like.
Then she nods.
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