7
1171 Words
"I... I went for a run," Noah lied, the words tasting like ash. "Took a shortcut through the construction site on 5th. Total mud pit."
Sarah stood in the hallway, holding his sneaker like a smoking gun. She stared at the black sludge in the tread.
"You went for a run?" she asked, her voice flat. "In jeans?"
Noah looked down at his denim legs. "I... forgot my shorts. Look, I need to get some milk. We're out."
He snatched the keys from the bowl and backed out the door before she could ask why a man with sore ribs and denim pants was sprinting to the grocery store.
Forty minutes later.
Noah sat in the corner of The Daily Grind, nursing a black coffee. He wasn't wearing running gear. He was wearing his favorite beige cable-knit sweater—the one with the elbow patches—hidden under a grey zip-up hoodie.
He looked like a grad student cramming for finals.
He was actually watching a man three tables away.
Benny "The Scoop" Miller.
The reporter was twitchy. He kept checking his reflection in his spoon, adjusting his fedora. A DSLR camera sat on the table like a loaded weapon.
[TEXT FROM: JINX]
Target acquired?
Noah tapped his earbud. "I have eyes on him. He's sweating through his shirt."
"He should be," Jinx’s voice crackled in his ear. "That memory card in his camera? It has a high-res shot of you on the roof. It shows the glasses, Noah. If he publishes that, Sarah connects the dots in ten seconds."
"I'll take the card," Noah whispered into his cup. "I'll scare him straight. No one gets hurt."
"You're too soft. I say we wipe his hard drive. And his kneecaps."
"Jinx."
"Fine. Just get the card. But heads up—Benny isn't meeting a source. He's meeting a buyer."
The cafe door chimed. TING-A-LING.
A man walked in. He was wide, wearing a leather jacket that strained at the seams. He didn't look like a journalism enthusiast. He looked like a fist with legs.
Black Shield.
Noah lowered his head, watching through the reflection in the window.
The Heavy sat down opposite Benny. He didn't order coffee.
"You have the photos?" the Heavy asked. His voice carried—a low, gravelly rumble.
Benny’s hands shook as he touched the camera. "I... I do. But the price has gone up. This is the Ronin. This is the story of the decade."
"The price," the Heavy said, leaning forward, "is that you get to walk out of here."
Benny swallowed hard. "Now wait a minute—"
The Heavy reached across the table. He didn't grab the camera. He grabbed Benny’s wrist.
CRUNCH.
Benny yelped. The other patrons looked up, startled.
"Quiet," the Heavy hissed. He stood up, dragging Benny with him. "We're going for a ride."
Noah sighed. "Why can't anyone just talk anymore?"
He stood up.
Pain flared in his side—the knife wound from last night. He ignored it. He moved through the tables, weaving between the chairs. He didn't run. He flowed.
The Heavy was dragging Benny toward the back exit.
"Hey!" Noah called out.
The Heavy turned. "Beat it, kid."
Noah didn't stop. He grabbed a carafe of steaming hot coffee from a waiter's tray as he passed.
"I think you forgot your drink," Noah said.
He flicked his wrist.
SPLASH.
Scalding brown liquid hit the Heavy’s face.
"ARGH!" The man roared, releasing Benny to claw at his eyes.
But the splash was wide. Hot coffee soaked the front of Noah’s grey hoodie and saturated the beige wool sweater underneath.
Noah didn't hesitate. He spun a wooden chair around and drove the legs into the Heavy’s knee.
CRACK.
The man went down hard.
The cafe erupted. Screams. People scrambling for phones.
Benny was frozen against the wall, clutching his camera to his chest. He was staring right at Noah.
Noah stepped over the groaning mercenary. He grabbed the Heavy by the collar and slammed his head into the floor. Not lethal. Just enough to keep him nap-time quiet.
THUD.
Noah turned to Benny.
The reporter’s eyes were wide, fixed on Noah's chest. The grey hoodie was unzipped slightly. The coffee-stained beige wool was clearly visible.
"The camera," Noah said. He dropped his voice an octave. The Ronin growl.
"P-please," Benny stuttered. "Don't kill me. I'm just a writer."
"The story isn't worth your life."
Noah reached out. He pressed the eject button on the side and caught the SD card as it popped out.
He held it up. A tiny square of plastic that could end his marriage.
SNAP.
He broke it in half with his thumb and forefinger.
"Go," Noah whispered. "And forget you saw him. Or the next time, I won't be saving you."
Benny nodded frantically. He scrambled toward the front door, leaving his dignity and his scoop on the floor.
Noah looked down. His sweater was ruined. Stained dark brown and smelling of roast arabica. And Benny had seen it.
He heard sirens in the distance.
Sarah.
He turned and vanished into the kitchen, slipping out the back door before the first squad car screeched to a halt.
He found a dumpster in the alley three blocks away. He stripped off the hoodie, then the beige sweater. He shivered in the cool air, left only in his undershirt.
He balled up the wool—his favorite sweater—and threw it deep into the trash.
"Sorry, old friend," he muttered.
He zipped the grey hoodie back up over his undershirt and started the long limp home.
Two hours later.
Sarah sat at the kitchen table. The apartment was dark.
She held a police report in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
Noah walked in, placing the gallon of milk on the counter. He kept the grey hoodie zipped up to his chin.
"Hey," he said, forcing a bright smile. "Got the milk. And some cookies. Sorry it took so long, the line was—"
"Read this," Sarah said.
She didn't look at him. She slid the paper across the table.
Noah froze. His heart hammered against his bruised ribs. He picked up the report.
INCIDENT REPORT: AGGRAVATED ASSAULT / CAFE DOWNTOWN
WITNESS STATEMENT (BENJAMIN MILLER):
"I was attacked by a thug. Then... he saved me. The Vigilante. He moved like lightning."
Noah scanned down the page. His eyes snagged on the description.
SUSPECT DESCRIPTION:
Male. 6'0. Fast.
Wearing: Grey zip-up hoodie.
Underneath: A beige, cable-knit sweater. Looked like something a librarian would wear.
Noah stopped breathing.
He looked up at Sarah.
She was staring at his grey zip-up hoodie. Then she looked at his neck, where the collar of a beige sweater should have been poking out.
It wasn't there.
"That sounds like a nice sweater," Sarah said, her voice dangerously calm. "Kind of like the one I bought you for Christmas. The one with the elbow patches."
She took a sip of wine.
"Where is it, Noah?"
- Writer
