Page 2 of Property of Bones

Bones

“Target is in the next aisle over,” Spike says through my earpiece, low and calm like always.

I grunt my acknowledgment and keep walking.

The supermarket smells like overly ripe bananas and chemicals. Annoyingly cheerful music plays over the speakers. I hate this place. Too many people. Too many smells. Too damn cheerful. And worst of all…

She works here.

I haven’t seen her yet, but the second I walked through the doors, my stomach did that weird twist thing like itknew. Stupid gut. Stupid memory. Stupid damn Pop-Tart aisle.

I spot the mark. Josh something. Works stock in the back. We’ve been watching him for a few weeks now, ever since one of our suppliers tipped us off to a local leak. Josh is twitchy, nervous, always looking over his shoulder.

He’s mid-conversation with another employee, back turned, jacket draped over the large cart holding unopened boxes behind him. My window.

I keep my pace steady. Nothing suspicious. Just a guy in a hoodie and jeans, shopping for canned soup with a face full of scars and a reputation for violence.

“Got eyes on the jacket,” I murmur under my breath. “Moving in.”

I turn, grab a can of chili, and wait for the opening.

Then…there she is.

She bounces into view from the far end of the aisle like the goddamn personification of a sugar rush. Ponytail swinging, smile brighter than the fluorescent lights. She’s laughing with a customer, probably convincing them to buy chocolate syrup “just in case.”

And I freeze.

Not like full-body-paralysis freeze. Just…pause.Like my brain trips over itself for a second and forgets what mission I’m on.

She catches sight of me and does a double-take. And then…damn it all…shewaves.

I look away immediately, shoving the can into my basket with unnecessary force.

“Tracker’s in,” I say quickly, slipping the tiny device into the coat pocket in one smooth motion. “I’m out.”

“Copy that,” Spike responds.

I should leave. Ishould. But I hesitate. And that hesitation is all she needs.

Suddenly she’s there, wheeling her cart right into my path like it’s fate. Or a setup. Or punishment from God for whatever sins I haven’t atoned for. Which are many.

“Well, if it isn’t Darth Brooder,” she says, resting her arms on the cart handle. “Back for more philosophical breakfast pastry debates? I mean, not that you actually responded to my pop-tart suggestion, but it really is a solid choice of snackage.”

I stare at her. Blank. Cold. Silent.

She grins wider. “Still mysterious. I like that. Adds to the whole ‘might be a hitman, might just really hate mornings’ vibe you’ve got going on.”

“What do you want?” I ask flatly.

Her nose scrunches. “Rude. But okay. I just thought it was nice seeing a familiar scary face. You know, in case the frozen peas stage a coup.”

I shake my head and move to walk past her.

“Hey,” she says, more gently this time. “You okay? You look like you’ve been through a war zone.”

My footsteps stop on their own. It’s not the question. It’s thewayshe asks it. Like she actually means it. Like she actuallyseesme.

I turn back just a little. “I don’t do friendly chit-chat.”

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