The bodega on the corner smelled exactly like every bodega in Queens: a distinct, enduring mix of stale coffee, ozone from the humming neon beer signs, and cheap floor wax.
Marcus grabbed a hand basket and moved down the cramped aisles with purpose.
He wasn’t shopping for a balanced diet; he was shopping for a siege.
He tossed in a loaf of bread, two jars of peanut butter, a six-pack of bottled water, and a handful of protein bars.
He needed calories that didn’t require a microwave, just in case the building’s sketchy power grid decided to give out again.
Near the register, he paused by a dusty rack of miscellaneous hardware and winter gear.
Since he’d blown his entire Merit Point budget on the psychic dampener, the System’s fancy Skin Ward was out of the question.
He had to improvise.
He ripped a pair of thick, heavy-duty leather work gloves off the cardboard hook.
They were ugly, mustard-yellow, and smelled heavily of synthetic dye, but the leather was thick.
It wasn’t System-guaranteed, but it was enough of a physical barrier that a stray brush of fingers wouldn’t result in him going into a coma.
He dumped the basket onto the counter.
The guy behind the register, a bored-looking teenager glued to a smartphone, rang it up without looking at him.
When Marcus slid the crisp hundred-dollar bill across the scratched laminate, the kid finally paused, giving the bill a highly suspicious squint before holding it up to the harsh fluorescent light.
“It’s real,” Marcus said flatly.
“Just make change. Keep a five for yourself.”
The kid shrugged, the transaction suddenly moving much faster.
Two minutes later, Marcus was back out on the gray, damp street, carrying a heavy plastic bag that cut into his fingers.
Marcus kept his pace even as he rounded the corner.
Halfway down the block, an NYPD cruiser sat idling directly in front of his building.
Its lightbar wasn’t flashing, but the exhaust plumed steadily into the damp morning air.
A young cop—uniform a little too crisp, posture a little too stiff—was standing on the cracked sidewalk, squinting up at the faded brass numbers above the lobby doors.
Marcus didn’t break stride.
Shifting the heavy grocery bag to his other hand, he walked right toward the building. This story is hosted at g.com.
Ducking his head or turning around was exactly how you caught a cop’s attention.
Hiding in plain sight just required acting like you belonged there.
“Excuse me—hey, buddy,” the cop called out, turning as Marcus approached.
“You live in this building?”
Marcus stopped.
He let his shoulders slump just a fraction, putting on the mild, slightly tired expression of a guy just trying to get his breakfast home.
“Yeah. What’s going on?”
“Trying to make sense of this layout,” the cop said, tapping a pen against a small notepad.
“I’m looking for apartment 204. Is that front or back facing?”
204.
Marcus’s apartment.
Marcus rubbed his jaw, looking up at the brick exterior like he actually had to think about it.
“204… oh, right. That’s the rear annex. You can’t get to it from the main lobby. You have to go around through the alley on the south side and take the metal fire stairs up.”
It was a complete fabrication, but he delivered it with the dull, absolute certainty of a long-time tenant.
“Alley on the south side,” the cop muttered, scribbling it down.
“Got it. Appreciate the help.”
“No problem,” Marcus said.
He shifted the groceries again, playing the part of a concerned neighbor perfectly.
“Everything alright, Officer? Should I be worried about my place?”
The rookie sighed, dropping his professional guard just a hair.
“Just checking out an anonymous tip. Some guy called 911 about ten minutes ago. Said some dude was holding a teenage girl against her will up there. Probably just a domestic dispute or a neighbor with a grudge, but we gotta check it out.”
“Huh,” Marcus offered a dismissive little scoff.
“Yeah, I’d bet on the grudge. People get pretty petty around here over noise complaints or stolen mail. I’m on that side of the building, and I haven’t heard a thing.”
Adjusting his grip on the heavy plastic bag, he took a casual step toward the front doors.
“But hey, you’re the professional. It’s definitely best you check it out anyway. Better safe than sorry.”
“Have a good one.”
“You too, Officer. Be careful in that alley, it’s a mess back there.”
…
Marcus shouldered through the lobby doors, letting the glass sigh shut behind him.
At 204 he knocked three times, evenly spaced.
He waited.
A floorboard creaked on the other side.
A shadow blocked the thin sliver of light under the doorframe.
“Who is it?” Her voice was muffled, pressed right up against the wood.
“Marcus.”
The deadbolt clicked.
The door opened a couple of inches before jolting to a stop against the metal chain.
Through the narrow gap, Marie looked at him for a split second, then shut the door again to slide the chain free.
Marcus pushed inside, setting the heavy grocery bag on the table.
“Get your shoes on,” he said, turning his back to her to pull the water bottles out of the plastic.
Marie took a half-step back, her eyes flicking from his face to the groceries.
“Why? What—”
“Just do it.” He dropped the bottles on the table and walked straight past her to the desk, yanking the bottom drawer open with a hard upward jerk and pulled out a brick of hundreds, thick as a paperback and bound in rubber bands.
It went into the grocery bag, wedged between the peanut butter and a bottle of water.
Ten seconds later they were in the hallway, the deadbolt clacking shut behind them.
“What is going on?” Her voice had thinned to almost nothing, her fingers twisting the hem of her jacket.
“Stay behind me. You’ll see.”