The bell above the MotorLoans office jingles as I enter, Hardison's voice in my earpiece: "Remember, just ask some questions about their loan terms. I've got your back with comms and facial recognition." I glance around the sparse waiting area, noting the security cameras that Hardison has already disabled. A heavyset man in a cheap suit looks up from his desk. "Can I help you?" he asks with a practiced smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Before I can respond, the door opens again. Bucky walks in, his hair in a manbun, red flannel with one sleeve pinned up. The man behind the desk's smile falters for just a moment when he sees Bucky's empty left sleeve. Bucky meets my eyes briefly, giving the subtlest nod. The mission has begun.

I approach the desk, maintaining a nervous demeanor appropriate for someone considering a high-interest loan. "I... uh... heard you guys can help with quick loans?" I ask, keeping my voice uncertain. From the corner of my eye, I see Bucky pretending to examine a brochure rack, his right hand resting casually near his phone - our signal device if things go south.

The loan officer's smile returns, suddenly more enthusiastic. "We certainly can, my friend. No credit check, minimal paperwork, cash in hand today. Perfect for veterans like yourself, I see," he says, glancing meaningfully at the military cap I'm wearing as part of my cover.

My jaw tightens involuntarily at his deliberate targeting of veterans. "Yeah... military service disability doesn't stretch as far as you'd think," I say, following the script Hardison and I prepared.

As he pulls out loan documents, I notice Bucky stiffen suddenly. His head tilts slightly, as if listening to something. His hand tightens around his phone. Something's wrong. The mission just took an unexpected turn.