The target was holed up in the space that should have been the 50th through 55th floors. There were no internal schematics for whatever was in there and the external windows had all kinds of high tech bullshit in them, around them, behind them, to prevent any other high tech bullshit from seeing inside. It seemed that the only way to see the layout, and by extension the dangers, was to actually get in.
Which led to the next problem. The ground floor to the 45th floor was a hodge podge of offices. At least two dozen companies rented floor space here, and there was no way of telling if any of them were legit or fronts for those hiding above. Which meant there was no way of knowing if any of the bodies were actual workers and, in effect, innocent or burly guys with gun shaped bulges under their coats. The floors above the 55th were easily less than legitimate businesses. The people on those floors were 100% going to be the kind of people who did not want uninvited guests. The only good news there was that they also didnt like the target who was in a sort of limbo underneath them.
So, getting in was a question. The easiest answer, just looking at the problem simply, was to swing over and smash through any of the windows in no mans land. Take the risk. The guys above werent going to really care. They might come for a look, but they werent going to risk their own shit for someone who wasnt one of theirs.
However many of the guys below, though, were. But there was no way of knowing where they were stationed. The likely option was the lower levels. It made sense. There was no one with any braincells who would choose to just swing into an unknown danger zone. Through, probably, quite thick glass.
Well, ok, there was one person. But to hire her? To get her to agree to anything outside of her own zone of interest? That would require more than just money. That would require something interesting.
“Something interesting for you,” another new voice said and a single piece of paper was laid before her on the bar. The various liquids that were never wiped up immediately soaked through.
She picked it up and stared at the note on it, then turned to the person who had delivered it. His face, young and old at the same time, with salt and pepper hair and a five o’clock shadow looked back. He shrugged and turned to leave.
“Was just told it was for you, and it was interesting. The rest is on you,” he waved over his shoulder and stepped back out into the mid morning light.
She snorted into her drink and put the paper back on the bar. As usual it was a job. There was no client noted, although she already knew who had sent it. There was just a name. The target. She smiled and rolled her eyes. This was going to cost him a lot.
If you knew who he was then you knew to stay away from him. Most people didnt know who he was and that was why he found himself bumping and weaving through heavy pedestrian traffic in the middle of Times Square.
He was dressed simply; an untucked white button down shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbows and a loose red tie hanging in front of the top two open buttons. He wore straight legged blue jeans that did not fit him as well as the jeans some of the younger men around this city wore and his were cinched properly at the waist. The only indication of decadence in his outfit today were his deep red leather shoes, buffed to a shine and unnoticed by everyone.
He had nowhere in particular to be. His message had been sent and, presumably, delivered. If she was interested, he wouldnt have to wait very long. So he walked – quickly, and with purpose – from his hotel suite to the office building where his fathers company was located. The old man would be there and he would be able to assist, but for now he would keep him out of it. If she declined then perhaps his father had other contacts who would be able to help. But they would cost more. She was crazy enough to do this at cost. Simply because of the target. He expected her to contact him before he made it to his fathers building.
The target was a man in his 60s. He had been, in his younger years, an enforcer for someone much more powerful that he could imagine. But those days had long passed and that once powerful kingpin was resting under an unmarked grave in the mud outside of Atlantic City.
The world changed as the target grew older. He took advantage of the power vacuum and, with some loyal followers, forged his own empire. Many years, and many more loyal followers, later he was as close as anyone could get to being as powerful as his old boss. But it still wasnt enough.
But all that would have to wait. Word on the street was that he was being targeted by people unknown for reasons unknown. Whoever had put the hit out on him was well connected and very direct. Kill him dead, no questions asked. Payment was a few million. He could, if anyone actually managed to get close enough to do the deed, offer more, but there were more than a few professionals who would take the paycut just to see him dead.
Which was why he had been held up in his private apartments for the last few weeks. The security system had flagged a half dozen people already, but each of them had been amateurish. People sending their feelers out to see if there was any weakness in the system.
The ones he was afraid of, and he freely admitted it, would be the ones who didnt trigger the alarms. In fact, they would be the ones who used that very system against him.
He peered at the security monitors and relaxed. They were still being stupid and testing for obvious weaknesses that didnt exist.
She walked with her head high as she entered the lobby of the very well appointed building. She was wearing her Do Not Fuck With Me outfit, a black dress that reached the floor, but not her neck, a dazzling necklace that drew attention to that fact with a fur lined coat hanging off her shoulders. The look was completed with a pair of sunglasses that she lovingly called her hangover lenses.
Her hair was bundled up in a way that reminded many people of a hungover woman and a small purse hung off her arm in such a way that one might expect a small dog to emerge from it.
She stopped abruptly at the reception and barked at the young, harried man who was the only one on this morning. “Jacob Reisman.”
“Excuse me, Ma’am?” the receptionist asked, not catching her accented words properly.
She leaned in over the small counter that separated him from her, a most inadequate barrier, and peered at him over the tops of her glasses. “Jacob,” she said slowly. “Reisman.”
“What about him?” the man asked. It was a name he recognised. Everyone who worked in the building knew it.
“Which floor,” she said, standing straight up again. It was a question, but it was not posed as one. It was a demand.
“Even if I could give you that information,” the man said, trying to regain some authority here. “You wouldnt be allowed up there to see him.”
She snorted at him. “You will not tell me?”
“I am not allowed to tell you,” he clarified.
“What is the point of running a business if you are not taking appointments?” this one was a question but it was clearly meant rhetorically as she waved his answer away before he started to speak it.
“You should try his assistant,” the man said. “Perhaps you can get an appointment that way?”
But she wasnt listening. She was already half way back to the door, her long legs distracting anyone who might have otherwise looked at her face.
She knew that on a normal building the glass on the external windows at that level was already hard enough to break through. On this building, though, it would be even harder. She guessed that the thickness would be, at least, trebled and there would be alarm sensors all though the pane. Once the glass was broken, the people below would start moving and the people above would be on edge. For a moment she considered throwing another explosive at the windows above first, try and seed some chaos, but she was going to be following the explosion through the glass very quickly afterwards. It would not do to be stuck between two marauding forces.
She sealed the package and checked her lines. Then she sent a quick, encoded, message to a receiver waiting below. Almost immediately, a large box truck drove straight into the lobby from the street. That was her signal. Time to go.
The target watched from his secure room as his security guards in the lobby approached the truck. He could also see another dozen heading to the stairs from the next few floors up. Anything could be in the back of it and they werent taking chances. In fact, all of his people from every floor were moving. Heading to the stairs and elevators. A few stayed on their level, but most headed towards the ground.
He was so focused on the mayhem in the lobby that he nearly missed the explosion outside of the windows.
The outer most layer of glass shattered and sprayed out over the street below. Immediately her computer was able to map the layout of the five floors. But she was already swinging and missed the notification when it was done. She fired another grenade from her hip and watched, with satisfaction as the rest of the glass shattered and created a hole big enough for her to easily swing through.
She landed, rolled, ditched her rope which swung back across and automatically wound itself back up, and pulled two pistols out of her holsters, swinging them around, checking for targets.
The room was dark and there was no other sounds but her breathing.
It took her all of ten minutes to check every floor. They were all the same. Darkened and with no movement. She checked her remote laptop monitor and saw the notification: no heat signatures.
Her info had been bad. Her target wasnt here.
So, she had agreed to do it, the target mused. He wondered who it was who had managed to get her to try again. Whoever it was had reliable intelligence. She was extremely ready for the new security windows. But they didnt have all the information. As soon as the unwelcome guests had moved in above him, he had shifted his apartments to another building across town.
At least now he could follow her. He could find out who it was who was targeting him and perhaps even send a message of his own back.