“White car and a short fat guy? Not much to work with,” Marc said.
“If this were easy, I would have just pulled up his address by now and kicked down his door myself,” Sean growled.
“What about DMV records?” one of the humans asked. “There can’t be that many white sedans in the city.”
“The Prophus aren’t stupid.” Marc shook his head. “Even if you locate the right car, all their records will have been washed, the license plate will lead to a dead end. The Social Security number was probably wiped within an hour of Tao finding a new host. Bank records, medical records, everything would have been altered by now.”
“Will we have access to Homeland Security’s camera network?” Iku’s host asked.
Sean nodded. “You will have complete access to the entire city. I expect active monitoring on the entire grid from 7am to 7pm every day.”
“Those cameras are in black and white,” someone stated the obvious. “A white car will be difficult to tell apart from other light-colored cars. It’ll be a needle in a haystack.”
“I didn’t say the task was going to be simple. Earning the right to a Holy One requires your diligence. Prove you are worthy,” snapped Sean.
“Why not monitor the city around the clock?” Marc asked. “Maybe he works at night. We can put a few resources on the night shift.”
Sean shook his head. “We’re paying fifty grand an hour for this access. There’s a global recession going on here, people. Even we are affected. You’ll have access only from seven till seven.”
Marc whistled in disbelief at the cost.
“What is the mission timeline?” asked Amber, one of the enforcer vessels.
“As long as it takes. However, I will be displeased if I receive a billion-dollar bill on my desk. See that our quarry is captured sooner rather than later. No doubt the Prophus are hard at work readying this vessel. As you all know, a new vessel is the most vulnerable in the early stages, so time is of the essence. The longer this takes, the more difficult it will be for you to take him down. Furthermore, we’re in a major city so the rules of engagement are limited. I want this quiet. We don’t need another LA riot to cover up our war. We do not need the heat. Anything else?” No one said a word.
Sean stood up. “You have your orders. All relevant intelligence is being transferred to your accounts right now. Let me remind you of the critical nature of this assignment. Both Haewon and Tao are considered high-priority targets who are in the upper Prophus echelon. For now, focus on Tao. He is at his weakest right now. We might not have another chance to take him out permanently. Brother Marc will be leading this team. He has intimate knowledge of Prophus protocols and operates with my authority. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Father,” the group chorused.
Sean nodded and left the room. He would leave it to Jeo to sort through the details. It’d also be a good test of Jeo’s loyalties and competence as well. The two enforcers already had instructions to put a bullet in his head if he did something unacceptable. Marc would accomplish the mission and deliver this Prophus, or die trying. He walked down the hall and pushed the button to activate the elevator, again fuming at the need to wait. Meredith better have this taken care of very soon, anniversary or no anniversary.
CHAPTER FIVE: DAY AFTER
Beep.
Roen woke up groggy, slowly gaining consciousness to the strangest sensation. Something didn’t feel right. His bed felt particularly stiff and the view was wrong. Now that he thought about it, it was also cold, and his blanket was nowhere in reach. He paused. Why was he sleeping on the floor?
Groaning, he sat up and stared at his Chicago Bears phone lying off its hook. Oh no, was he drunk-dialing again? He tried in vain to remember the events from the previous night. Roen often worried that he did incredibly stupid things while inebriated, things he didn’t remember the next day. Unfortunately, everything past stumbling through the front door was a big haze. Picking himself up, he walked to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. He looked like the walking dead, with bloodshot eyes and a haggard swollen face.
“I think I’m still drunk.” He winced, feeling the room sway back and forth. Roen flexed his arms and chest, and sucked in his gut. With a disapproving scowl, he slapped his belly and walked back into his room, surveying the carnage of clothes strewn over the floor. His stomach growled and he wondered why he was suddenly so famished. Well, who was he to argue with his belly? Time to eat.
Beep.
What was that sound? His cell phone! Roen rummaged through a pile of clothes, patting the pockets on each pair of pants. Finally, he found it in a wrinkled pair of khakis discarded in the corner. He sorted through the messages, finding two texts which were sent exactly five minutes apart.
It’s 11. Where are you?
I was expecting you in two hours ago.
Roen read the messages again, perplexed. Why would Musday care where he was on a Saturday?
“Crap!” he yelled as he threw on the same pair of khakis and frantically looked for a shirt. Now he remembered why he wanted to make it an early night yesterday. He was supposed to work this morning. As he was about to head out the door, his stomach growled again, and he nearly doubled over in pain.
Roen rubbed his belly and looked up at the clock. He didn’t remember ever being so hungry that it hurt. Did he have time to cook a quick breakfast? He was already late. His brain and his stomach had a tug of war for a few seconds on what he should do next; the stomach won and he rushed into the kitchen to make some eggs. It just wouldn’t do if he passed out at the office. Half a dozen eggs, two pieces of bacon, and three sausage links later, Roen rushed out the door, still buttoning his shirt just as the clock struck 11.45.
He stepped off the thirty-sixth floor in his office building a few minutes past noon and sneaked toward his cubicle, trying hard not to be seen. He crept down the hallway and turned down one of the aisles. Brushing his shirt to smooth out the creases, he walked by one of the cubicles and smiled at the person sitting there.
“Hey Jill, good afternoon.”
Jill Tesser looked up from her work, her thick-rimmed glasses hanging low on her nose; a hint of dimples appeared as she smiled, her face lighting up the room. Roen caught himself staring at her light auburn hair and the faint freckles that accented her bright hazel eyes. He looked away, his face turning bright red.
“Oh, hey, Roen. I see that the slave drivers got you coming in today too, huh?”
“Um, yeah,” he stammered. He tried to formulate a clever response. “Yes, they did.”
She grinned and went back to work. He stood there awkwardly, trying to think of something to say. She looked back at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was there something you needed?”
“Um… no. Just wanted to say hi.” Roen waved and then, feeling his ears burn, fled to the end of the aisle across three more rows toward his own cubicle. Trying to appear as casual as possible, he crept to his seat and powered on his laptop. He leaned back and looked around at his disheveled desk that mirrored the state of his bedroom. He was in a six-by-six foot cubicle with blue and red carpeted walls that probably were once popular during the 1960s. Assorted stacks of paper, books, and bags of snacks littered the desk. Roen picked up a half-eaten bag of stale chips and popped one into his mouth.
“I was expecting you in at 9am,” a voice said behind him. Roen turned to see his manager standing with his arms crossed. With a carefully combed-over hairdo and a hefty beer belly, Musday had the sort of rotund figure that Roen feared he’d acquire if he spent a few more years at the office. He already wasn’t that far off.
“I’m sorry, Mr Musday. I forgot I had to come in this morning.”