The café had three exit points, poor camera coverage, and a rear bathroom window large enough for emergency extraction. These weren't arbitrary details—they were survival metrics. Ezra slid into his usual corner seat, back to the wall, violet-blue eyes tracking each patron with automatic precision. The space carried the bitter warmth of over-roasted beans and conversations designed to fill silence.

He'd already been here thirteen minutes. Six minutes longer than his standard routine allowed. The coffee sat cooling before him, black and untouched, while his fingers absently rolled a quarter across his knuckles. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit from training—maintain dexterity, occupy hands, appear casual. The weight of the Glock against his ribs provided more comfort than the seat ever could.

Thirteen minutes. Too long in one place. Patterns create vulnerabilities.

The reason for his extended stay caught his attention again. He sat three tables away, nose in a book, apparently oblivious to the predators and prey that populated the world. Something about his presence had disrupted Ezra's carefully maintained schedule. Not a threat assessment—he'd completed that within seconds of his arrival. Something else. Something he couldn't quite categorize.

Ezra took a measured sip of coffee, the bitter liquid warming a throat unaccustomed to casual conversation. His phone vibrated once against the scarred wooden table. Maddox. The handler never called unless absolutely necessary.

"Understood," Ezra answered without preamble, voice low enough to avoid carrying. "Address?"

He memorized the information, deleted the call log, and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Tonight then. The final name on his contract list before he could initiate his extraction plan. Six more weeks and he'd be gone—vanished into the carefully constructed identity waiting in a lockbox three states away.

Ezra's gaze drifted back to him. His coffee had gone cold too.

Why do you keep looking? he asked himself.

Ezra stood, movements economical and controlled. His leather jacket settled over his shoulders as he adjusted the collar. For the briefest moment, he allowed himself another glance.

He left exact change on the table and headed for the door, the cold Chicago air a shock against his face. In his peripheral vision, Ezra caught him finally looking up, a moment of eye contact that lasted a heartbeat too long.

The corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily before he could suppress it.

** Later that evening...

Blood looks different under fluorescent light. Not the rich crimson of cinema, but darker, almost brown against the white industrial tiles. Ezra breathed steadily through his nose as he methodically wiped down the surfaces. The executive floor of Mercer Financial Group had emptied hours ago, the converted warehouse's exposed brick walls contrasting with sleek glass offices. Only the night security guard remained, now unconscious in the supply closet—alive, but with a headache that would linger for days.

The target was taking longer than expected. According to the intelligence package, Gregory Mercer always worked late on Thursdays in his corner office, reviewing offshore accounts before the Friday transfers. The CEO's computer hummed quietly in the background, copying files onto an encrypted drive. Physical evidence of embezzlement that would resolve a very expensive problem for a very private client.

The quarter rolled across his knuckles as he waited, muscle memory keeping it flowing smoothly while his mind calculated contingencies. Three minutes to complete the download. Two minutes to sanitize his presence. Four minutes to the exit point. Variables accounted for.

A door opened somewhere in the corridor.

Ezra froze, the quarter stilling between his fingers. Not Mercer's distinctive heavy tread. Lighter. Hesitant. The cleaning crew wasn't scheduled until 2 AM, hours from now.

He moved silently behind the door, drawing the suppressor-equipped Glock from its holster. The footsteps approached, paused. A shadow fell across the sliver of light beneath the door.

Unexpected variables create risk. Risk creates exposure.

The door began to open.

The face that appeared belonged to neither security nor his target, but to the man from the coffee shop. His eyes widened, taking in the scene—the blood spatter from Ezra's earlier encounter with the guard, the running computer, and finally, Ezra himself, weapon now half-lowered in shock.

For three heartbeats, neither moved. Ezra's mind raced through scenarios, each ending with necessary but unwanted violence. His finger rested alongside the trigger guard, not on the trigger itself. A distinction only professionals recognized.

He shouldn't be here. Couldn't be here. The mathematical improbability of this exact person appearing in this exact place made his jaw clench. Coincidences didn't exist in Ezra's world—only patterns he hadn't yet identified.

"Don't scream," he said, voice low and controlled despite the adrenaline surge. He studied his face for recognition. "The blood isn't fatal. But what happens next depends entirely on you."

The drive beeped its completion behind Ezra. Time had just become their shared enemy.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the elevator bank. Mercer was coming. Ezra made a decision before his analytical mind could fully process the implications. Without warning, he moved forward, one powerful arm wrapping around the man's waist while his other hand covered his mouth.

"Not a sound," Ezra breathed against his ear, his body solid and unyielding against the other man's. "Whatever brought you here, we're both dead if you're found. Nod if you understand."

The slight tremor in the man's body triggered something unexpected in him as he backed them both toward the service door, a protective instinct that ran counter to years of training.

"When I remove my hand," Ezra whispered, "you're going to tell me exactly who you are. And it better be worth listening to."