Chapter Text
“Here?”
The driver looked dubious as he leaned forward to gaze out the windshield. He had followed the GPS directions to the letter, yet his passenger - sitting straight-backed in an expensive-looking wool coat with his gloved hands folded loosely on his lap - didn’t match the modest townhome that was marked on his phone map. In fact, it seemed like the entirely wrong end of the city for his passenger’s destination. Surely it had been a mistake.
“Here.” The passenger confirmed, and placed a fan of $20 bills on top of the taxi meter. He leaned back to take his duffel bag from the backseat, and climbed out of the car. “Thank you,” he added, then swung the door closed behind him and made his way up the sidewalk to the house.
The driver re-locked the door as soon as it closed, and watched as the man felt in his pocket for keys, then let himself inside. The driver shrugged, put the car in gear, and left. Not his job to wonder why people lived where they did, just to get them home from the airport.
47 closed the front door behind him with a soft click, and toed his shoes off into the boot tray. His gloves were removed and pushed into the pockets of the coat, which was hung in the hall closet. That done, he slung the duffel across his back and moved silently up the staircase.
At the first landing he paused, letting his senses run through the house for any sign of danger. There was a bar of flickering light below the door to his left, no doubt from the television. Ava, the woman who owned the home in which he was renting a room often fell asleep with it on, a fact he had filed away in his mind in case it ever became necessary to kill her. A movie with gunshots and explosions provided decent cover for the real thing in a pinch. The soft murmur of recorded voices told him it had gone to infomercials, selling a detergent that would get grass, wine, and blood stains out of white shirts. He had tried the product before, though - it did nothing for blood, though it did a passable job on wine.
The rest of the house was dark, quiet. Empty - as it should be. There were no other boarders or residents, which suited him well. Less people to ask difficult questions. He turned up the next set of stairs to the attic room, where he put down the duffel bag. Unpacking could wait until morning, after he had recovered from a tense mission and a too-long flight from Copenhagen.
First things first. He made a brief sweep of the room - no land phone line to check for listening devices (an advantage over staying at a hotel), but he checked the mattress, window and door moulding, floorboards, and closet for any unexpected bits of wiring or microphones that might have appeared since he left a few weeks ago. Finally, he pulled a chair to the middle of the room to thoroughly check the ceiling fan. Satisfied that his safehouse was as safe as he had left it, he returned the chair to the corner, draped his discarded clothes over it, and turned down the bed for sleep.
---
Morning announced itself with a shaft of light streaking through the window blinds and into 47’s eyes. He grunted with irritation as he pushed back the warm blankets and rose to tighten the blinds. Not as much sleep as he would have liked, but more than he expected. Before he could return to the warm nest of the bed though, the sounds and smells of breakfast and fresh coffee reached him. His stomach growled at the thought - when had he last eaten? At the airport in Brazil, probably. Too long ago.
Downstairs, he could hear the sizzle of eggs frying in a pan, and the morning news reporting on a recent spate of carjackings. He listened a few moments for anything relevant to him, then moved back to his bed to make up the sheets, smoothing down the edges. Next was the closet, to put on a black shirt and pants. No messages from Diana on his phone.
Below him, he heard the door open then close and lock. It seemed Ava was continuing her morning routine. He moved to the window to watch her go, recognizing the pattern. It must be 7 a.m. She woke at 6:30 a.m., ate eggs and toast for breakfast. 7 a.m., morning jog in the nearby forest preserve. She would be gone an hour, returning to shower, dress in scrubs, and go to work at Forestview Animal Hospital, ten blocks away, to clock in at 9 a.m. In the snow, she took the 173 bus to get there.
All of this was recorded in the rolodex of 47’s well-honed mind, the small habits that make up a person. The little opportunities that may someday come in handy if she got too curious.
Per her pattern, she had left the coffee pot warming with a mug beside it for him, and a plate covered with a tea towel to keep in the heat and moisture. He lifted the towel - eggs, bacon, and toast. He took the mug and plate to the table, and settled in to eat.
It had been one of the selling points of setting up this location as a regular safehouse - the ready breakfasts. Ava had explained it away with a shrug, saying she had been used to cooking for two for several years before she began leasing the room in the attic, so it was no trouble for her to keep doing it now.
He hadn’t asked who she had been cooking for before, and she hadn’t volunteered the information. He got the impression that neither of them thought it was any business of his.
The phone in his pocket buzzed - a text alert from Diana, giving an all-clear. No contracts today. Good - he could use some rest. He scooped the last of breakfast into his mouth, drained the mug, and sat back. Thirty minutes until she returned. Enough time to unpack his gear from last night without fielding uncomfortable questions.
---
“Attic room to let: quiet, smoke-free, prefer male. Monthly rate.”
There was nothing flashy about the ad in the newspaper. Simple and to the point. It wouldn’t draw the attention of most readers - but 47 was not looking for an airy, open-plan penthouse with a good view of the lake. While he felt the allure of floor-to-ceiling windows and exotic, bustling locales, those things went against the premise of a good safehouse. He needed a quiet neighborhood. No kids to get in the way or ask questions adults knew better than to say out loud. Small windows, preferably with an alley view and no hiding points for snipers. Close to international airports. Good cell phone reception. Blackout curtains.
He stood on the porch, assessing the location as he waited for his knock to be answered. So far, it seemed to tick all the boxes. Anyone who had passed as he walked up had been looking at their phones or into the distance, no attempts to smile and greet the newcomer.
A woman, early 30s, answered the door - deadbolt, lock, secure but not insurmountable. She gave a tentative smile. “Can I help you?”
“I emailed you this morning,” he said, holding up his phone as some kind of proof. “Is the room still available?”
“It is,” she said, and stepped aside to let him come into the house. “Sorry, I’m Ava. I placed the ad. The room I’m renting out is up top… not afraid of heights, are you?”
“Not at all.”
As she turned to lead him deeper into the house, he took stock of his surroundings. Kitchen to the right - knife block on the counter, good brands. Laptop open on the table. To the left, a staircase. Solid wood railings, too sturdy for a fatal accident to be believable. Ahead, a short hallway leading-
“Good, come on up then.” She said, and began up the stairs. “What did you say your name was, again?”
47 watched her walk about halfway up before following her. Short brown hair, just past her ears - no ponytail to grip in a fight. Post earrings. T-shirt and jeans. Barefoot, unable to run quickly outside if attacked.
“Tobias Rieper,” he said, somewhat distracted by the cold calculus that had been ingrained into every strand of his DNA. Average height and size, easy to overpower. Neck relatively slim, jugular vein accessible.
“German? ‘Rieper’ sounds like it, somehow.” At the landing she pointed out each door in turn. “My bedroom is there, bathroom there.”
That put her bedroom over the front of the house. Clear shot from the opposing building, probably. Check later.
“And up here…” she climbed the stairs to the small third floor, “is the room. It comes furnished, everything you see here. Feel free to look around.”
47 walked past her, scanning the room with a practiced eye. Iron bed frame, heavy. Solid. Good looking mattress. Window over a roof awning, good for a quick escape. Closet large enough to hide weapons among the clothes. A body, if it came to that. He flicked his gaze up to the ceiling, which angled up toward the roof peak. Ceiling fan. Good for summer heat, but also for stashed listening devices. He would need a chair to check.
“Do you have any questions?” Ava asked, after what seemed like more than enough time to look at the space.
“Is anything between this ceiling and the roof?” He asked abruptly. “Crawl spaces?”
“Not that I’m aware. Should just be some insulation and wiring for the electrics in this room. Why?”
A pause. “You know how squirrels can get in this weather. Looking for any nook to make a nest.” The excuse came easily, naturally, leaving little time for her to wonder why a crawl space might sway his decision.
“Oh.” She laughed. “I’ve been there before, pain in the ass to get them back out. Don’t worry, everything’s tight as a drum.” Then, when he didn’t comment, she added “It wasn’t this house, anyway, but a place I was renting a few years ago… I called a humane removal service, of course, the whole nest was moved to some wildlife refuge area or something. I didn’t need a bunch of dead baby squirrels on my conscience, what would my clients think?”
“Clients?” He turned to look at her, interest piqued.
“Hm? Ah, I’m a veterinarian. Dogs, cats, exotics… I try to avoid killing anything I don’t have to, but it’s a hazard of the trade…” She trailed off, suspecting he’d stopped listening two sentences ago.
“I know the feeling,” he said absently, moving to the window to look out at the street. Sparse trees, nothing to climb up to reach the window. Few hiding places.
She was certain he’d stopped listening now. “So… what do you think?”
A brief pause, his expression turning to that of a person adding up an entire checkbook in his head at once, then, “Yes. I’ll take it.”
A knot of tension she hadn’t realized was there released in her chest. Good. It wouldn’t hurt to have an intimidating-looking man coming in and out of the place. “Oh! Good. Any other questions before we sign some not-legally-binding paperwork?”
A thought popped into his head, bypassing his reason filter and coming out of his mouth without permission from any other faculty. “What do you think of birds?”
---
A knock on the handrail at the bottom of the staircase broke 47’s concentration. He placed the cleaned rifle back into its pelican case and clicked the locks.
“I’m here,” he called down as he pushed the case under the bed and stood. “Come on up.”
Ava climbed the stairs slowly, balancing the base of the wire cage with both hands. The canary inside flapped furiously as it tried to keep its balance on the perch, chirping bitterly at the treatment. “I think he missed you,” she said, putting the cage gently on the top of the dresser. “He goes off his seed a little when you’re gone for a long time.”
47 moved to the dresser, turning a critical eye to the bird. Feathers smooth. No signs of stress. “He doesn’t miss me. He misses the window.”
“I can’t,” she said, retreading a well-worn path of conversation. “If I leave him up here, I’m afraid I’ll forget he’s here and never feed him…” she shook her head, eyes closed. “I can’t.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said, voice somehow more relaxed than before. “You wouldn’t forget.” He took a bottle of water off the window sill and splashed it into the dish inside the birdcage.
The canary hopped to it to bathe itself.
“Besides,” she said, eager to change the topic, “I like the singing. It’s nice to hear while I’m getting ready for work.”
47 gave a slight hum in response, watching the bird clean its feathers. “Thank you again. For taking care of him, I mean. I know it was last minute…”
“It always is.” She gave a short laugh. “You always seem to get called to a conference at the last second. You really should talk to your boss about that, it can’t be legal.”
“A flicker of a smile. “It’s the nature of a career in sales, Ava. A new contract needs to be closed, someone has to jump on it.”
“Mm. I guess.” She looked around, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry. You’re probably busy…”
“I’m not,” he said, lifting the cage door to run a finger down the bird’s back. The bird flapped its wings and bounced foot to foot in delight.
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure how to interpret that response. Improvisation seemed necessary. “In that case, I was thinking I’d open a bottle of wine and watch a movie or something, if you…?” her voice trailed off, uncertain.
47 closed and carefully latched the birdcage, taking the moment to consider the branching options ahead of him. Blend in, that was the brief. Always act as you are expected to, until you must do otherwise.
“Yes,” he said with finality. “That would be nice.”
“Red, white, or pink?” She led the way back to the stairs, beginning down them without looking back. “I have a nice red. It’s nothing expensive, but it tastes nice.”
“That sounds- ah,” his phone was buzzing. He didn’t have to look at the screen to know who was calling. “I have to take this,” he said, and turned away from the stairs. "Save it for another time."
“Sure,” she said, deflating slightly.
“Thank you.” He answered the call, retreating into his room as he put it to his ear. “Diana?” The rest of the conversation faded out of Ava’s hearing range into murmurs.
Ava paused. Ah. Well then. That explained quite a lot, actually. She descended to the kitchen to begin pouring one glass. Well, she thought, it’s better to know early, before I thought of doing something foolish.
Her mood somewhat soured, she took the glass to the couch and placed it on the coffee table at either end. She pulled a blanket up around her, snuggling down into it as she pulled up Netflix to find something worth watching.