Done Waiting Book 6: Elara

I live like a monk because the alternative is getting caught. Or worse, getting someone else caught.

Thirty-four, freelance courier for clients who pay in cash, never give real names, and expect miracles wrapped in plausible deniability. The job is deceptively simple: move the thing from A to B without anyone noticing you moved it. The thing is usually small enough to disappear against my ribs -- data drive, encrypted chip, once a single folded sheet of vellum that fit inside a fountain pen cap. The clients are always the same: paranoid, wealthy, convinced the world ends if their secrets breathe daylight. I don’t ask why. I don’t keep souvenirs. I don’t form attachments deeper than the burner phone I swap every fourteen days.

My apartment in Brooklyn proves I mean it. One room, one window facing an air shaft that smells faintly of exhaust and yesterday’s rain even when it’s dry. Futon rolls up during the day because sitting on the floor feels less like surrender than sprawling on furniture I don’t need. Kitchenette: hot plate, kettle, packets of green tea. Fridge holds water, eggs, vegetables that won’t rot in forty-eight hours. I cook once a week, portion it out, eat the same meal until it’s gone. Routine is armor.

I tell myself it’s funny on the good days. I have the metabolism of someone half my age and the social calendar of a cloistered nun. College friends text once a year; I reply with some version of “Still vertical, still mobile.” They think I’m kidding. I’m not. The last date was eighteen months ago -- nice guy, good jawline, asked what I did. I said “logistics” and watched his eyes slide off mine like water on glass. I paid for my half of the wine, walked home alone, felt nothing but quiet relief when the lock clicked behind me.

We don’t take the highest-paying jobs. Not the ones with deadly stakes. We take the necessary ones.

Unfortunately, that kind of moral line reads like obstinance to the people in charge. Like defiance.

And, as we both just learned, eventually, they try to get you killed.

So now here we are.

Too good at being good for our own good.

The drive came to me three days ago. Encrypted, palm-sized, heavier than it looked. Client met me in a Midtown coffee shop that smelled like burnt espresso and wet wool coats. No handshake. Just the sleeve sliding across the table under a folded newspaper, then him walking out without a backward glance. I tucked it into the hidden pocket of my jacket -- the one sewn into the lining so it sits against my ribs, cool metal warming slowly to skin temperature. I felt the weight the whole walk home, a quiet second heartbeat.

I didn’t sleep much that night. Sat on the futon with lights off, listening to the city breathe: distant sirens, garbage trucks rumbling, the low thrum of traffic that never stops. Ran contingencies like counting sheep -- alternate routes, fallback safe houses, who I’d call if the hunters showed before the handoff. The list was short. I work alone. Always have.

The handoff in the warehouse district went wrong in the quietest possible way. I arrived early, scoped exits, waited in shadow with my back to a support beam that smelled of rust and old motor oil. Damon arrived five minutes later -- same deliberate walk, posture easy but watchful. We locked eyes across the empty floor. No surprise. Just recognition.

He was supposed to intercept. I was supposed to deliver. Instead we both heard the same thing at the same second: faint metallic click of a scope being adjusted on the roof across the street.

We moved simultaneously -- low, fast, out the side door before the first shot cracked the silence. No words. Just mutual survival instinct.

The rain had started by then, cold and steady, fat drops slapping my face like small, angry palms. My jacket soaked through in seconds, waterproof shell giving up almost immediately so that every new drop found already-wet fabric and slid straight down my spine in icy rivulets. My boots pounded wet pavement, soles slipping fractionally on the slick concrete with each stride, forcing me to adjust my balance mid-air. Breath came in sharp, hot bursts that fogged the air in front of my face, each exhale tasting of adrenaline and the metallic bite of city rain. Sweat bloomed under my arms, down the small of my back, mixing with rainwater until my shirt clung like a second, sodden skin, the cotton heavy and cold against overheated ribs.

The drive pressed hard against my ribs with every stride, a dull, insistent bruise forming already, the metal edge digging deeper with each impact. Three blocks. Separate routes. I cut left through a loading dock, vaulted a chain-link fence that rattled under my palms -- metal cold and slick, chain links biting into my skin through thin gloves. I landed hard on the other side, knees absorbing the shock with a jolt that radiated up my thighs, quads trembling from the impact. Behind me, boots pounded somewhere parallel -- Damon’s rhythm, steady, unhurried even at full speed.

Adrenaline tasted metallic on my tongue, sharp and bright. My heart slammed against the drive, pulse so loud in my ears it drowned the city noise. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging; I blinked it away without slowing. Thighs burned, calves tight and cramping.

We converged without planning it -- same shadowed gap between two brick buildings, garbage stink thick and sour in the air, wet asphalt gleaming under the single flickering streetlight. I slid to a stop against the wall, back flat to rough brick that scraped through my hoodie, chest heaving, breath ragged and audible now -- short, harsh pants that fogged the air in front of my mouth. He appeared a heartbeat later, same posture: back to brick, head tilted to listen, rain dripping from his hair in slow, deliberate rivulets that traced the line of his jaw, down his throat, disappearing under his collar. His shirt clung to his chest in dark patches, outlining the rise and fall of his breathing; I could smell it on him, clean salt undercut by exertion, mingling with the wet-brick scent of the alley.

We stood there for five seconds -- maybe ten -- breathing hard, chests rising and falling in uneven sync. Sweat and rain had darkened his shirt across the shoulders; my own shirt stuck to my breasts, fabric heavy and cold against suddenly overheated skin, nipples tightening painfully from the contrast. Neither of us spoke at first. Just the sound of our breathing slowing, the rain drumming on metal somewhere overhead, the distant wail of a siren that wasn’t coming for us.

He looked at me first, eyes dark in the dim light. “Your boss sold us out.”

“Mine too,” I managed, voice rough from the run. “Or someone did. Doesn’t matter now.”

He exhaled through his nose -- almost a laugh, dry and brief. “So we’re both carrying the same hot potato, and half the East Coast wants it.”

“Seems that way.”

A beat of quiet, rain tapping the dumpster lid beside us.

He didn’t ask. Just stated the obvious. “LA is still the endpoint.”

I weighed it for half a second. Alone I was fast. Together we were cover. Two sets of eyes, two sets of hands, two lives suddenly sharing the same expiration date.

I nodded once. “Jersey safe house. One hour. Separate routes.”

He gave a small nod in return -- no smile, no elaboration.

We split up again, different cabs, different streets.

I didn’t look back.

But I already knew I’d see him again in an hour.

And I already knew that changed everything.