Blur

The call came as these calls usually do—in the middle of the night.

The phone rang twice before I picked it up. It was four am. Calls at this hour usually meant one of two things: someone died, or needed to.

“Hello, John.”

I recognized the voice. Trevor. 

“Where?”

“Your usual morning haunt. Let’s say half past six?” 

Trevor’s accent was still as thick as I remembered. The statement itself was telling. It meant I had been under surveillance for several months. This was not a surprise; I knew they would probably be watching me for the rest of my life.

The usual haunt, as Trevor suggested, was my favorite Starbucks. It was located in Jackson Heights, Queens. I enjoyed my coffee there every morning, it had become part of my daily routine.

Routines had a habit of killing people like me, so I took steps to vary the frequency of my visits, picking odd times, occasionally missing a day or two. It was obvious I hadn’t varied enough.

I must be slipping.

I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom, starting my day. By five forty-five, I was headed out the door. At six, the barista, Lisa, was just opening up.

As Starbucks went, this was one of the most comfortable I had experienced, and also the only one in the neighborhood. I headed to my usual table near the rear and facing the entrance.

Routine is a killer.

My training took over the moment I entered a location. I noticed everything and then stored it in the back of my mind. It was an automatic thing, drilled into me from years of training, and had saved my life on more than one occasion. I was doing it now, as I waited for Trevor.

I let my gaze go wide and slowly scanned my surroundings.

Two large panes of glass bookended the entrance to create the face of the shop. Immediately upon entering, on the left was a large, square table that sat four. The table was small enough to be used as a weapon, yet heavy enough to do substantial damage. Along the left wall, were four more small, round tables evenly spaced, with two wooden chairs each. None of them were bolted down.

On the right side was a long, high-back sofa that threatened to swallow you if you sat on it. Easy to shift into the way of an oncoming attacker, creating a makeshift barrier if needed. Another four round tables shared the sofa each with a chair. Further along on the right was a leather sofa, with a low oval table before it. 

Surrounding the oval table were three rust-colored wingback chairs which would make excellent cover during a gunfight. Above the sofa, were three large mirrors, that allowed for excellent peripheral views, arranged in what may be considered tasteful décor.

The counter was next, and this followed the template of most Starbucks: display case followed by cashier station, followed by coffee/espresso/exotic coffee machine area. It was easy to mantle and use as cover in a pinch.

In the back, before reaching the bathrooms were more of the wingbacks. It made me wonder if there had been a sale on the rust-colored chairs at some point. The walls were a pale off-white and contrasted with the wood paneling that ran the entire length of shop.

On the walls, in decorative frames, were prints of coffee from different parts of the world. Estate Pacamara from El Salvador sat beside Elephant Kinjia from Africa. Each print rested in a heavy frame and portrayed a geographic image of its point of origin.

The lighting was dim as usual, an homage to the bistros of yesterday. It was an attempt at atmosphere that succeeded on some basic level. To finish it off, the tile floor accented the wood and contrasted the walls perfectly.

The place was a temple and coffee was its god.

And like every place of worship, there was music—music which on the whole gave me a headache. Since I was always the only patron at this hour, Lisa mercifully refrained from torturing me with the music. She had my coffee, black, no sugar, and extra strong waiting at the cashier. 

“Thank you, Lisa,” I said, paying with a twenty for a two dollar cup of coffee. 

I always put the change in the clear plastic tip cube sitting next to the register. I felt it was small price to pay for an hour or so of silence before the morning rush and policy forced Lisa to turn on the music.

She was always apologetic when she turned it on. I would just smile and assure her it was fine. I took my customary chair in the back, beside the other wingbacks.

Routine is a killer.

My chair provided me with an unobstructed view of the entrance and easy access to the service entrance and bathrooms.

I must be slipping.

I sipped my coffee, enjoying the bitterness and aroma.

Forget slipping. This is full-blown sloppiness.

At first glance, the place looked like a deathtrap, two exits easily guarded, which meant easily controlled and blocked.

I knew different.

Inside the staff bathroom was an unused service door that had been sheetrocked and tiled over. A quick look at the original plans of the Starbucks confirmed what I had suspected.

The unused service door led to the restaurant next door, and from there to a stairwell that exited behind the restaurant into an alleyway. That exit was out of the line of sight of the building across the street, the perfect place for a sniper to gain target acquisition. 

The staff bathroom was never used and kept locked during business hours. It cut down on work for AnnMarie, the manager, who only had to maintain the remaining two customer bathrooms. 

I had convinced AnnMarie that I was something of a germaphobe. That, coupled with my regular, large tips, garnered me a key to the staff bathroom that I used sparingly. 

At six-thirty exactly, a figure strode into the shop. He was tall, with chiseled features more appropriate on the cover of some men’s fashion magazine. Dressed in a dark blue Armani suit, he exuded privilege.

Everything about him was impeccable.

The hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. The tie, some exotic blue silk, was tied in a perfect Windsor. The shirt, a white which seemed to faintly glow, was pressed and starched to perfection.

I gazed at the figure, taking in the gait, the calm, assured manner in which he moved. I noticed the poise, the economy of motion. The man was highly trained. If it came down to it, he would be difficult to subdue. 

Subdue? No, I would have to kill if it came to that.

Trevor.

Trevor sat in the wingback facing me, his back to the door. It was a clear indicator that he had nothing to fear at this meeting. He would have stationed men at the entrance and service exit. This Starbucks was about to have its slowest morning in history. 

“Trevor,” I said. “I would say it’s good to see you, but I don’t make it a habit to lie first thing in the morning.”

Trevor gave me a tight smile that died on its way to his eyes, as anger flitted briefly across his face. He never could hide his emotions.

I took in the complete image, carefully crafted to disguise the predator lying beneath the surface of polish and fashion. Trevor settled into his chair, placing his Halliburton case beside him. He crossed his legs, the Bruno Maglis on his feet screaming excess and vanity.  It was all a sham, a façade that I saw through.

“Hello, John, we need to talk.” The words were fast and clipped. “It’s urgent.” 

Something has him worried. 

“I’m here, talk.”

“Direct as always. I always appreciated that about you.”

“I’m only here because it’s you.”

That was a lie.

I was here because I needed to assess how much of a threat I faced. So far, it felt considerable, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

Trevor held up his hand as he reached for the case. I tensed slightly—reflexes and training kicking in. He deliberately slowed his hand, and pulled out a USB drive, placing it on the table along with a file folder. 

“Tell me, John, have you had any new students?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?” Trevor said as he pushed the file and the USB drive closer to me. “No new recruits?” 

“You came all this way to ask me a question I’m sure you know the answer to,” I said with a low growl, letting him know I was irritated. “Why?”

“I needed to make sure, see your eyes. I remember Kei fondly,” he said, opening an old wound that had never really closed. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

The name struck a chord.

Not a day passed that I didn’t think about her. What I could’ve done differently. How I could’ve saved her.

I looked away as the memories rushed at me, crowding my thoughts.

“What do you want?” I said. “Why are you here?”

“Someone is eliminating our assets.”

“And this is my concern, how?”

“Whoever is doing this is very skilled, trained by the best.”

“Sounds like an internal matter to me,” I said. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?”

“We put some of our best on apprehending the target; none of our people came back.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

For the first time, I saw his composure slip. It was the smallest of tells—his eyes flicked to the side before he continued speaking. Whatever it was, it had him spooked.

“This person can blur,” he said, looking directly into my eyes. “A true blur.”

“Impossible.” 

“We all thought so.” 

“I was Nakamura Sensei’s last student,” I said in a subdued voice. “I only taught Kei, and I saw her die. Your people are wrong. You’re mistaken.”

“Now you can see why I’m here,” he said matching my tone. “If it’s not you, or someone you trained, then we have a serious situation on our hands. We need you to secure the target, John. You’re probably the only one who can.”

“I’m retired.”

He smiled at me again.

This time, the smile was dangerous and predatory, like staring at a shark in the ocean while bleeding out of an open wound.

He shook his head and removed imaginary dust from his sleeve.

“John, you know there’s only one way people like us retire,” he said, looking around the Starbucks. “It doesn’t involve spending days in the local coffee shop.”

Trevor pointed at the file and drive

“Everything we know is on that drive and in that folder,” he continued. “Call me after you review it.”

He stood to leave and adjusted his tie in one of the mirrors as he did so.

“Did you confirm the ability being used?” I asked, staring at the file. “Are you certain it was a blur?”

“Yes. I really hope we’re wrong about this,” he said, satisfied with his tie. “Maybe it’s like you said—an internal matter.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“I don’t need to tell you the natural progression of things if this person isn’t stopped,” he said, staring at me. “You’re the only person we know that can blur like this.” 

The words hung in the air.

I understood the unspoken intent.

If this assassin wasn’t stopped, I would factor high on the target list; this meeting was a warning…and a not-so-veiled threat. Someone had to be held accountable, and I had just made the short list. 

I picked up the file and drive. 

“I’ll give you a call later.” I said, “after I review these.”

Trevor nodded and headed to the door.

He made a show of pulling out his phone and connecting a call. He started speaking as he stepped outside, forgetting that I could read lips. I caught the tail end of what he was saying as he turned. 

“…he has the file, let’s see what he comes up with. Give him some room to move but stay close. Do not engage until I give the signal. He’s retired, not dead. At least…not yet.”

It was good to see that as much as things had changed, some things had still remained the same. I had a feeling the next time we met, it would be a brief and deadly conversation.