7

7

The first thing I notice on stepping outside is the sky. It’s not the usual sickly gray smog that Los Angeleans take for granted on a day-to-day basis, but rather the apocalyptic orangish-gray haze of death that signifies a nearby brushfire; you can even taste the toxicity in the air. Sure enough, a glance at the news on my smartphone confirms that some embers from the bombing in the valley got caught on the wind and started a raging fire in the Simi Hills.

Now I’m no tree hugger, though I suppose I’ll admit I’m more likely to hug a tree than another human being, but the fact that these assholes are wantonly causing such chaotic destruction all for the sake of tormenting me really, really pisses me the fuck off.

The trip to Jason’s fourth safe room in North Hollywood goes smoothly. However, that makes me concerned our luck will probably run out when we get to my place. We get in; Jason retrieves his hidden stash of supplies, I.D.s, and cash from underneath a loose floorboard; and we get out. Like I said, too smooth for my liking, but I suppose I’m just paranoid after all these years working in homicidal espionage.

We got an early enough start that we arrive in my South L.A. neighborhood well before noon, we agree we’ll stake the area out until midnight, and if we don’t see anything suspicious, we’ll go in.

We park a block away from my house—close enough to keep an eye on the house for anyone coming or going, but far enough away not to draw immediate attention to ourselves if anyone else happens to be on a stakeout looking for us.

Fortunately, Jason’s taste in vehicles is more modest than my own, so his old Honda Civic—purchased this morning under one of his many fake identities—doesn’t quite stand out as much in the neighborhood as my usual taste of Porsche would. I never cared about that kinda thing in the past, of course, but in this current situation, I have to admit discretion is more important than style. At least the AC in the car works, so if I have to spend a day in close quarters with my ex, at least it won’t be completely uncomfortable.

I know that movies make stakeouts seem glamorous and cool, but in reality, they’re boring as all fuck. Sitting in a car for hours just staring at a street . . . and doing this with your ex to boot. Not how I would voluntarily elect to spend my day.

After almost an hour, the awkward silence becomes unbearable and I have to break the ice, even if it means breaking into one of my least favorite activities: small talk.

“So, did Zeke tell you anything about Nick?” I ask, not sure how much of what I know that I want to reveal.

“You mean about the experiment? I got the basic gist of it. T.H.E.M. was experimenting with mind control, something went wrong with Nick, he went crazy and got himself disavowed, the experiment was shut down.”

“More or less what he told me,” I concede. “Though, I experienced firsthand some of what went wrong with Nick . . . ”

“Really? Zeke was his usual ambiguous self when it came to dishing any details on that.”

“Nick became . . . fuck, I hate saying this because it makes me feel like I should be wearing a tinfoil hat. He was psychic. He had the ability to read my mind. That’s how he was able to stay ahead of T.H.E.M. at so many turns. He was even able to plant dreams into my subconscious while I was sleeping, which skeeved me the fuck out.”

“Fuck. That’s some heavy shit,” Jason says. I suspect if he’d heard this from anyone else he’d laugh it off as a joke. But Jason knows that, aside from sarcasm, I have no sense of humor.

“There’s more. I suspect even if T.H.E.M. disbanded the experiment after Nick’s breakdown, I think Nick and his partner still had some of the mind control serum. Nick was probably able to retrieve it from the memories of T.H.E.M.’s R&D team using his psychic abilities. Right before Mary Sue and I were sent to Tennessee, we had another assignment. I’d woken up one morning having one of my hankerings to kill, and Zeke graciously granted me a one-off assignment but made Mary Sue go with me. We were supposed to kill a senator, so we posed as two hookers and met him in his hotel room. I killed him, but right before he died, he . . . again, I know this sounds crazy, but it was like he became possessed, and he said to me, ‘Sarah . . . Nick says hi . . . ’ The senator had no way of knowing who I really was. I think Nick used his powers to find out I’d been assigned to kill the senator and somehow managed to drug the senator with the serum before he got to the motel.”

Jason mulls this over for several seconds. “While none of this makes any sense whatsoever, I have to admit your theory seems about as plausible an explanation as anything. If it’s true that Nick’s minions have more of the mind control serum, then we’ll have to be even more careful than we initially thought. Anyone could be affected by it.”

I decide to withhold the fact Zeke revealed to me that Nick’s mind reading was not the only side effect that came out of the experiment. Gotta keep some cards close to the vest.

We relapse into an awkward silence, focusing on the stakeout task at hand. After about an hour, Jason offers to make the first food run—giving me some much-needed alone time. When he gets back and we’ve eaten, I let him have a turn at solo stakeout duty so I can seek out a gas station bathroom.

The day crawls on and on with nothing even remotely exciting happening. A squirrel ran out into the road at one point and got chased by my neighbor’s dog. That was the highlight of the afternoon. Eventually, the sun starts to set, and I opt to go for the dinner food run this time, eager for the opportunity to stretch my legs.

Once night has settled, we get a little more excited about everything except our actual stakeout. It’s just that I don’t exactly live in one of South L.A.’s upstanding neighborhoods, so night tends to be when the drug deals and hustles come out to play. I can take care of myself, so it never bothered me or made me feel unsafe—my house is thoroughly decked out with a state-of-the-art security system, courtesy of my T.H.E.M. salary, and I am obviously not the type of person to go out and get to know my neighbors, anyway, so the shady dealings of the area were of little concern to me. At least it breaks up the monotony that was our daylight stakeout.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the clock on Jason’s dashboard reads midnight.

“All right,” Jason says, stretching his arms as he opens the driver’s side door, “it’s been more than twelve hours and we haven’t seen anything suspicious around your house. I guess it’s now or never.”

“Finally. Let’s get this bullshit over with already.”