Assurances

      Inside of 20 minutes, we pull into a sizable, commercial, parking garage located beneath the large, office building matching the designated coordinates of our drop-off point. The growler is guided to a halt near a parked, luxury SUV by uniformed men and we off-load our package to them, soiled but alive. As their prize loads himself into the back seat of their ride, one of the men approaches, a younger, middle-aged man in a slack demeanor, to settle our business. I offer him the firm’s account information and, though my HUD no longer has any ballistic glass to project onto, I feel my company phone vibrate with a notification from within its protective mount in my chest plate. I click it open to see a bank deposit of the expected 500 large before closing it back up again.

      “I believe that settles us then, gentlemen. Sir.” I say with a nod to the other men, and then to the apparent one in charge before turning to leave. The man calls back to me, however, stopping me in my tracks.

      “My employer would like to also extend an offer for further dealings,” he says, to which I simply reply, “Not interested.” The job already stunk of something I’d left behind long ago in my professional life. In this business, your instincts are sometimes the only thing that can bring you home alive and I fully intend, in that respect, not to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

      Blackjack is the only one to not hesitate from moving to leave.

      “Now, hold on there, boss...” Says Scarelli. “This was the best job we've had in ages and you don't even want to hear them out?”

      “No.” I say flatly.

      “Boss,” says Rico in almost a mutter, “I can probably pay my rent for over a year with my share just to start. You don't think it's worth at least looking into?”

      “I agree,” says Porter, half-raising his hand. “Money like this doesn't come hopping into your pocket everyday. I really could use it…”

      Dimo, just as well, nods and says, “I want to see what this turns into.”

      I sigh, my eyes jumping between everyone's before falling upon those of Newt.

      “And what do you make of this? You haven't said a word.”

      Newt shifts in place, patting down the messy hair on the back of his head as he speaks. “There is a lot I could do with this kind of money, boss…”

      I grimace at the response. I know I’m not crazy. There's a reason Jack was the only other one ready to leave.

      She noticed it too.

      …

      I sigh into the stale, garage air before turning back around to the client's men. “I have a condition. I want a meeting with Black Bear,” I demand. The salaryman clasps his hands together and says, “I don't believe that that would be an issue. I’ll have his secretary get in touch with your office and-”

      “-No,” I interrupt, “not in a few days. I want to see him now.”

      The man, surprised, looks at the other two employees and then produces a phone to make a call. Scarelli steps up beside me.

      “What are you doing?”

      “Getting assurances,” I say, brushing him back aside. The man returns a moment later from his brief phone call.

      “We can make that happen if you like,” he says, “if you would please ride with us over to conduct the meeting.”

      I nod but, as I step forward and climb into a seat, the other door of the SUV opens to reveal Scarelli sliding into the vehicle along with me.

      “And what are you doing?” I ask, to which he mumbles, “I can't let you do this without anyone backing you up,” and, for a moment, I’m a little touched at his concern. I nod in approval of him joining me.

      Another half-an-hour later and I’m tapping my foot in a carpeted hallway of old-fashioned wallpaper and carved wood. The windows of the vehicle had shades drawn and locked in place, as to entirely block passengers’ means of looking out and memorizing the route. Reception just as well was blocked, offering me no means of GPS tracking. Truth-be-told, I tried keeping a mental account of the turns but, after nearing half an hour of driving, I’d slipped the memory of exactly how the route went.

      I’ve since removed my helmet. If one must walk handedly into the lion’s den, he may as well have the courtesy of removing his hat. Scarelli stands next to me, his arms folded as we patiently wait for the heavy, richly-stained, mahogany door to open once again.

      I’m surprised to see that Scarelli doesn't seem nervous at all. Expression as cool as ever, he looks to be handling the adventurous pivot of the day’s events well and, though I needed to do this, it helps keep me at ease in my own on-the-spot decision to come here.

      There's a click as the handles for the heavy door pivot and the large portal groans open to regurgitate the VIP and Black Bear’s youthful secretary from the dark room. She leaves the doors open and steps away from them as she informs us, “Dr. Chamberlain will see you now,” allowing us to pass in front of her.