Page 37 of Isaac

An affectionately familiar ding echoes across polished steel walls before they part to reveal an unnamed hallway. No signs of life here. Even sounds seem unwilling to trespass—all except for a lone door at the end that readsRoof Access.

As if drawn by an invisible force, I direct myself straight toward it, jamming down panic and fear like junk food on cheat day, readying every nerve within my body for any curveball this malevolent city might dare throw my way.

The hot wind bites into my skin, sharpening my senses, as I step outside.

I'm alive and aware as I scan the area, alert to any sign of danger.

But the only answer is the sprawling cityscape of Vegas, wearing twilight as a second skin, all concrete and glimmer.

"Anyone there?" I call out, my voice flying off into the distance, swallowed by the murmur of urban life down below. "I got your text."

Silence greets me, save for the wind that whistles through exposed pipes and humming vents.

My eyes dart around, searching for any hint of movement in the twinkling semi-darkness.

And then I see it—a figure leaning against the parapet, a figure I know well.

Thoreau.

My pulse quickens, but it’s not from fear.

"How did you get my number?" I breathe, my guard dropping for a moment.

The neon sign from the building across the street casts yellow light over the left side of his face. His right side is shrouded in darkness.

"It’s on your job application," Isaac supplies matter-of-factly.

I take a few steps in his direction and the air between us begins to vibrate. I don’t know if it’s in my head or if this anomaly is real and physical. I have no explanation. Only more questions.

"Right," I mutter, feeling an odd mix of annoyance and fascination. "Why am I here?" I close the distance between us with three wide strides.

The shadows around Isaac shift, revealing the hidden side of his face. He’s dressed in all black, the top of the shirt unbuttoned as always, arms crossed on his sculpted chest. Slacks cling to his lean legs, accentuating their length. Shoes polished and shiny.

I realize I’m staring again. Something draws me to him and not in a way it should. I want to study and memorize everything that he has to offer. His expression and its variations. What he wears. And how. The way his voice changes, depending on the topic of the conversation.

"I have a task for you," Isaac says. And when our gazes lock under the Vegas sky, I feel the weight of his words in my bones.

"What kind of task?" I ask, the questions piling up inside me like a house of cards ready to topple.

"Delicate," he explains, his dark eyes never leaving mine. "It requires someone with your... particular set of skills…" He pauses and waits and I’m standing there, rooted to my spot, unable to move. "If you are still looking for opportunities that is," Isaac adds, his voice a whisper.

"Go on," I prompt, intrigued by his cryptic tone but wary of what lies beneath it.

"We need to find something in a storage unit. It might be there, it might not. But we need to know for sure." His authority hangs heavy in the air, tangible and undeniable.

"Find what?" I press, needing specifics so I could figure out what my next step would be. With Thoreau, every single sound that comes out of my mouth can potentially be my last one. And if Jeremy’s whispering shit in his ear, it’s bad.

"An item," Isaac says, evading a direct answer.

"What kind of item? I ask, feeling like this is a game now. Maybe even a test.

"A document. Are you in?"

"Sure." My instincts are screaming at me to be cautious, but danger is part of this job, part of being undercover. I chose it a long time ago—to be in this fight and I keep on throwing myself into the fire. Over and over.

"Good." Isaac nods, the darkness swallowing him once more as he pushes off the parapet and steps away from it and toward me.

We are so close now, I can smell him. Smell that salty ocean breeze.

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