The Price of Trust

The oil was cold. I worked it into the bolt carrier with a soft cloth, my movements practiced and economical. One piece at a time, laid out in perfect order on the grey mat. The rifle was a Steyr SSG 08, disassembled. It looked like a diagram, like something abstract and harmless. The city glittered through the window behind me, a silent, sprawling network of light.

I didn't think about the purpose of the tool, not really. Thinking was a liability. The process was what mattered. The smooth glide of the bolt in its housing, the clean scent of the solvent, the faint click as a pin was seated correctly. It was a ritual that emptied my head of everything but the mechanics of the thing in my hands. It was better than sleep.

My apartment was a sterile box in the sky. White walls, polished concrete, a bed pushed against the far wall. No photographs, no books, no clutter. Clutter was a history, and I didn't have one I cared to revisit. The only thing of value was the view, and I didn't own that.

My phone vibrated against the concrete floor. A single, insistent buzz. I didn't look at it. I finished wiping down the barrel, holding it up to the light to inspect the rifling. Clean. Perfect. I began reassembly, the pieces coming together with a series of satisfying, metallic sounds. It felt solid in my hands again, a single object with a single purpose.

The phone buzzed again. Silas. He was impatient.

I picked it up, my thumb swiping across the screen. I didn't say anything.

"You there?" His voice was tinny, stripped of warmth by the encryption.

"Yes," I said.

"New contract. Deputy Mayor Alistair Finch."

I slotted the magazine into place. It seated with a firm click. "Okay."

"City Hall. East balcony. He has a cigarette at ten P.M. every night. He thinks no one knows."

"And now we do." My voice was flat. I looked out the window, at the thousands of other windows staring back. Thousands of people with their own little routines.

"He'll be alone. The window is exactly fifteen minutes. After that, his security does a check."

"The shot?"

"From the rooftop of the Sterling building. I've already cleared your access. A maintenance keycard will be in the usual place."

"Payment is standard?" I asked, my eyes tracing the lines of the rifle stock.

"Standard transfer upon confirmation. Visual confirmation, Winona. A photo. And be clean. This one needs to look like a heart attack until the coroner gets a closer look."

"Understood."

There was a pause. I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line, a small, irritatingly human sound. "The file is sent. Don't call this number again until it's done."

He disconnected.

I set the phone down, screen-side down. The conversation was already fading, just another set of parameters in a complex equation. Finch. Ten P.M. Sterling building. Clean. I stood up and walked to the window, resting the cold steel of the reassembled rifle against my shoulder. The city didn't look any different. It was just a place. Finch was just a name, a set of coordinates. My job was to make a small, precise adjustment. To remove one light from the millions below. It meant nothing. I felt the familiar quiet settle over me, the calm before the work began. It wasn't peace. It was just emptiness.

The wind was a physical presence on the rooftop, pushing against my jacket. It smelled of rain and exhaust fumes. Below, the city was a river of light, cars flowing like blood cells through arteries. I lay on a thin foam mat, the concrete cold beneath it. The Sterling building was old, its parapet decorated with stone gargoyles that were now just dark, misshapen lumps against the bruised purple of the sky.

My rifle was already set up, the bipod steady on the ledge. I had checked the wind speed twice. A slight crosswind, from left to right. I made the adjustment on the scope, a few small clicks. My breathing was slow, even. In, out. My heart rate was low. This was the stillness I worked for.

Through the scope, the balcony on City Hall was a bright rectangle of light cut out of the darkness. It was empty. I checked my watch. 21:54. Six minutes.

I didn’t think about Finch. I didn’t know what he looked like beyond the grainy photo in the file Silas had sent. Middle-aged, thinning hair, a soft jawline. He was just a shape I was waiting for. Thinking about him as a person, giving him a family or a favorite meal, was unprofessional. It was noise. My job was to eliminate noise.

The minutes passed. A siren wailed somewhere to the south, then faded. I watched the windows of the apartments across the street. People were moving around inside, living their lives. A woman was washing dishes. A man was watching television, the blue light flickering on his face. They were unaware of me, of the small, violent act that was about to take place in their periphery.

21:59. My finger rested on the side of the trigger guard.

At 22:01, a glass door slid open and the shape appeared. Finch. He was wearing a dark suit, his tie loosened. He moved to the railing and pulled a cigarette from a case. The flame of his lighter was a brief, bright flare in the scope. He inhaled, and the tip of the cigarette glowed red.

I shifted my position slightly, settling the rifle butt into the pocket of my shoulder. The crosshairs found the center of his chest. I tracked his slow, rhythmic breathing. He exhaled a plume of smoke that was immediately snatched away by the wind. He looked small and insignificant.

I let out half a breath and held it. The world narrowed to the circle of glass in front of my eye. The shape of his suit jacket, the faint light glinting off his watch.

I squeezed the trigger.

The rifle bucked against my shoulder, a firm, familiar push. The sound was a dull cough, swallowed by the suppressor and the city noise. Through the scope, I saw Finch jolt. His cigarette fell from his lips, a tiny orange ember tumbling into the darkness. He staggered back a step, his hands flying to his chest. He looked confused, as if he’d forgotten something important. Then his legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground, out of my line of sight.

The balcony was empty again.

I didn't move for a full minute. I just breathed. In, out. The adrenaline was a low hum under my skin, but it was already fading, leaving behind the usual hollow space. I pulled out my phone, attached the telephoto lens, and took the picture. Finch’s legs were visible, his expensive shoes askew. It was enough for confirmation. I sent the image to the number Silas had provided. No message. None was needed.

The work was done.

Methodically, I began to break down the rifle. The barrel was warm. I packed each piece into its custom foam slot inside a nondescript black case that looked like it held a musical instrument. The process was grounding. It was the only part that felt real. The rest was just a series of actions, a program I was running.

I wiped down the area where I had been lying, making sure nothing was left behind. No brass, no fibers, no trace of my existence. I was a ghost.

Carrying the case, I moved to the roof access door, the keycard Silas had mentioned sliding it open with a soft beep. The stairwell was dark and smelled of dust. I descended the twenty flights of stairs without making a sound, my soft-soled boots silent on the concrete. I emerged into a back alley, the air thick with the smell of garbage and damp pavement. I pulled up my hood and merged into the sparse late-night foot traffic, just another anonymous figure heading nowhere in particular. The wire transfer would be in my account by morning. The money was the only proof that any of it had happened at all. It didn't buy happiness, or peace. It just bought another month of this. Another month of stillness.

The bar was called The Alibi. It was a stupid name, too on the nose, which was probably why it worked. It was dark, smelled of stale beer and old wood, and no one looked at you twice. I took a booth in the back, the vinyl cracked under my thighs. The table was sticky.

I ordered a whiskey, neat. The bartender was a large man with a grey beard who looked like he’d been here since the place was built. He poured the drink without a word and I paid in cash, leaving a small tip. I didn't want him to remember me, but I didn't want him to remember me for being cheap, either. It was a fine line.

I took a slow sip. The alcohol burned a clean line down my throat. My phone remained in my pocket. The transfer confirmation had come through an hour ago, but Silas liked the physical exchange for certain jobs. A performance of trust, or a way to keep his runners busy.

A young man slid into the booth opposite me ten minutes later. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two. His jacket was too big for him and he had the nervous energy of someone who was trying very hard to look like he belonged. He was new. Silas burned through runners.

He didn't speak. He kept his eyes on the table. I took another sip of my whiskey, watching him. His hands were clasped in his lap, but I could see his thumbs rubbing against each other.

I slid a small memory card, housed in a plain white plastic case, across the table. It stopped just short of his side. He looked at it, then at me, a flicker of eye contact. His eyes were a watery blue. He reached out, his fingers fumbling slightly as he picked it up. He slipped it into his jacket pocket without checking it. He was either trusting or stupid. Or both.

He pushed a slim, hard-sided briefcase along the vinyl seat towards me. It bumped against my hip. He stood up, gave a short, jerky nod, and walked away, disappearing back into the city. The entire interaction took less than thirty seconds.

I didn’t touch the briefcase. I finished my whiskey, letting the warmth spread through my chest. The bar was starting to fill up. A couple sat in the booth adjacent to mine. They were laughing. The woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing against the man's cheek as she did. He caught her hand and held it. They were in their own world, a bubble of shared jokes and casual touches. I watched them, cataloging the details. His watch was a cheap knock-off. Her shoes were scuffed at the heels. They were probably in debt. They were probably happy. I felt nothing watching them. Just a sense of distance, as if I were observing a different species.

My professional assessment was automatic. The man was oblivious, his back to the main room. The woman faced the door but was focused entirely on him. They were soft targets. Both of them. The thought was as natural to me as breathing.

Across the room, another man sat alone at the bar, nursing a beer. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror behind the rows of bottles. He wasn't a threat. He was just lonely. His shoulders were slumped. He looked tired. I understood tired.

I felt a familiar sense of detachment settle over me, heavier than usual. The noise of the bar, the low murmur of conversations, the clink of glasses, it all seemed to be happening behind a thick wall of glass. I was here, in the room, but I wasn't a part of it. I was an observer. A ghost at the feast. The briefcase at my side was the only thing connecting me to this world, and it was a connection I had to purchase.

I stood up, leaving the empty glass on the table. I picked up the briefcase. It was heavy, solid. The weight was grounding. I walked out of the bar without looking back, the door swinging shut behind me and cutting off the sound of other people's lives. The street was wet, the neon lights of the city bleeding across the slick pavement. The money didn't feel like a victory. It just felt like currency for the next quiet, empty room.

The apartment was as I had left it: white, clean, anonymous. It felt less like a home and more like a holding cell between assignments. I placed the briefcase on the polished concrete floor and locked the door behind me. The three deadbolts slid home with heavy, satisfying clicks. Safety was a series of mechanical actions.

I didn't open the briefcase. I knew what was inside. Stacks of used, non-sequential bills. I’d run it through my own counter-scanner later, but I knew it would be clean. Silas was many things, but he wasn't careless with payment. The money was a tool, not a prize. It bought equipment, information, and silence.

My own silence was free. It was the default setting.

I walked past the kitchen, a space I rarely used for anything more than making coffee, and into the main living area. The furniture was sparse and modern—a low-slung grey sofa, a single black leather armchair, a glass and steel table. Nothing personal. Nothing to hold onto. The only thing that was truly mine was in a simple wooden crate in the corner.

I knelt and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in soft foam, was a turntable. A Rega Planar 3. Beside it, a small collection of vinyl records in protective plastic sleeves. Maybe twenty of them in total.

I slid one out. The cover was worn at the edges, the cardboard soft from years of handling. A black and white photograph of a woman with long hair sitting on a stool, a guitar across her lap. Her face was in shadow. There was no title, no artist name. I didn't need one.

The ritual was always the same. I wiped the disc with an anti-static cloth, my movements precise. I placed it on the platter, the weight of it familiar in my hands. I lowered the stylus, and after a moment of soft crackling, music filled the room.

A lone acoustic guitar, fingerpicked. Then a voice. A woman’s voice, clear and high, singing about rain and leaving and the taste of salt. It was a simple song. A sad song. I had no memory of who gave me the record, or when. I only remembered the music itself, a faint echo from a time before this life, before the stillness became a requirement for survival.

I sat in the black armchair, the briefcase still on the floor near my feet. I didn’t close my eyes. I watched the city through the floor-to-ceiling window. The endless stream of headlights on the freeway below looked like blood cells moving through an artery. The city was a living thing, and I was a foreign body within it. A parasite.

The singer’s voice swelled, holding a note that seemed to hang in the air, vibrating against the glass of the window. It was a beautiful sound. I could appreciate it on a technical level. The purity of the tone, the control in her breath. I could analyze it. But I couldn't feel it. The sadness in the lyrics was just data. Words arranged in a specific order to evoke a specific response. The response simply failed to materialize in me.

The song ended. The next one began. This one was about a house by the sea. I thought about the logistics of an assassination in a coastal town. The humidity would affect the ballistics. The sound would carry over the water. Escape routes would be limited. My mind mapped it out, a professional exercise to pass the time.

I was aware, in a distant, academic way, that this was supposed to be a comfort. This music. This small moment of indulgence. It was meant to fill the emptiness left behind by the adrenaline. But the silence in my apartment was vast. The music didn't fill it, it only decorated the edges of it. It made the silence seem bigger, more profound. Acknowledging loneliness would be a vulnerability, a crack in the foundation. It was better to feel nothing. To be a clean, empty room.

The record played on. I didn't move. I just sat there, watching the lights of the city, listening to the ghost of a feeling. The woman on the record was singing about love now. About hands intertwined and secrets whispered in the dark. It was a language I no longer spoke. I wondered if I ever really had. The memories were like the photograph on the album cover, the faces lost in shadow.

When the final song faded and the needle lifted, the silence that rushed back in was absolute. It was louder than the music had been. It pressed in on me from all sides. I sat in the dark for a long time, the briefcase a solid weight by my feet, the only real thing in the room.

Eventually, I pushed myself out of the chair. The room was cold. I put the record back in its sleeve and the turntable back in its crate, securing the lid. The small ritual was over. Back to work.

My laptop was on the glass table. A matte black machine with no identifying marks, running a custom-built operating system that existed only on a handful of encrypted drives, one of which was currently in my possession. I powered it on. The screen glowed, illuminating my face in the dark room. I entered a string of alphanumeric characters, sixty-four of them, from memory.

The system booted into a stripped-down interface. No desktop, no icons. Just a command line and a single, secure browser. I connected to a private network, bouncing the signal through half a dozen proxy servers in different countries before accessing the forums I needed. These were the black markets of my trade. Not for weapons, but for information and technology. The places where zero-day exploits were sold and new surveillance hardware was reviewed by a discerning clientele.

My current toolkit was adequate, but adequacy was a slow death in this business. I was looking for advancements in audio surveillance. Something smaller, with a longer battery life and a more secure transmission protocol. I filtered through threads, dismissing most of the offerings. Too much of it was repurposed consumer tech, unreliable and easily detected. I was looking for bespoke engineering.

I navigated to a sub-forum called ‘Field Notes.’ It was a place for operators to trade stories, boast, or complain. Most of it was noise. Egos competing for status. But occasionally, buried in the posturing, there was useful intelligence. A new security measure being tested at a European airport. A flaw in a popular brand of armored vehicle.

A thread started two days ago had an unusual amount of activity. The title was simple: ‘The Lisbon Job.’

I clicked on it. The original post was from a user I recognized, a Belgian logistics specialist named ‘Vaucanson.’

Vaucanson: Anyone have eyes on Lisbon last week? The finance minister. The official report says heart attack on his yacht. My source on the ground says the boat’s security detail was top-tier. Ex-military. Full comms blackout for twelve hours. When they came back online, he was dead. No signs of entry. No toxins in the preliminary report. Clean.

The replies were a mix of skepticism and speculation.

Spectre7: Sounds like an inside job. The wife always benefits.

Janus: Or just an old man with a bad heart. Happens.

Vaucanson: The detail was vetted by his own people. And his wife was in Monaco. The interesting part is the chatter from his security firm. They’re spooked. They think someone got on and off that boat without tripping a single sensor.

I scrolled down, my eyes scanning the text. It was a professional puzzle. Interesting, but not relevant to me. Then I saw the name. Or rather, the initial.

Cain99: It has H written all over it. Audacious. Impossible.

The name was met with a flurry of activity.

Spectre7: Don’t start with the H myths.

Janus: I heard he used a modified submersible drone to attach a device to the hull that vibrated at a frequency that could induce cardiac arrest. Bullshit, obviously.

Vaucanson: The drone story is bullshit. But H is not. I worked a job in Dubai he was on the other side of. We were guarding a sheikh. H didn’t come through the doors or the windows. He came up through the plumbing. Bypassed a forty-million-dollar security system by posing as a municipal sanitation worker for three weeks to map the pipes.

Cain99: That’s the one. He didn’t even kill the target. He just replaced his medication with placebos. The guy’s own body did the work for him. The creativity of it. That’s his signature.

I leaned back. The stories were like ghost stories for people in my profession. Legends told to scare the new hires and impress the clients. Every field has them. The super-soldier, the master spy, the ghost who can’t be caught. I had always dismissed it. Professionalism meant dealing with facts, with tangible data. Legends were a distraction.

Still, I kept reading. They talked about him like he was a force of nature. A chaotic element in a world built on cold, hard rules. They said he never used the same method twice. That he took contracts based on their difficulty, not their payout. That he once completed a hit using only items he could purchase in a single convenience store.

It was all unverifiable. Gossip. The kind of talk that gets people killed for focusing on the wrong things. I should have closed the thread. My search for audio tech was the priority.

But I didn't. I found myself scrolling back, re-reading Vaucanson’s post about the plumbing in Dubai. The detail was specific. Posing as a sanitation worker. Mapping the pipes. It wasn't the kind of thing you would invent. It was too mundane, too practical. The kind of tedious, long-term planning that went into a truly successful infiltration.

A flicker of something unfamiliar registered in my chest. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t fear. It was curiosity. A clean, sharp feeling. I wanted to know the schematics of that plumbing system. I wanted to know how he bypassed the pressure sensors. I wanted to know if it was true.

The feeling was a loose thread on a perfectly woven fabric. I had an impulse to pull on it. To type the initial ‘H’ into my own search parameters, to cross-reference the jobs they mentioned with my own private databases.

I caught myself. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. This was a waste of time. An unprofessional indulgence. I had work to do. My own methods were effective. They were tested. They were safe. That was all that mattered.

I closed the thread. I went back to the listings for surveillance equipment. But the thought remained, a quiet subroutine running in the background. H. It was just a letter. A piece of gossip on a forum full of liars and braggarts. It meant nothing. I told myself it meant nothing.