Gordon Webb, we all know, is heading quickly towards L, trying to sort his mind out and shake off the paranoia that clings to his head.
Jason Bourne, back straight and looking resolved, has made a decision about whether or not to stay in New York. He is heading away from La Guardia on the F train.
There is no flight back.
He is staying.
Our third player is stepping out from beneath the bowels of New York at Lexington Avenue, sunglasses glittering in the sun as she twists her neck calmly from her right to her left.
She waits for the crosswalk to turn the desired color.
And moves.
A camera thuds against her sternum, cap sealed tightly over the lens. She is tired of carrying the device; the strap has worn into her neck, leaving (she knows this) a rash in its wake, and she is holding her head at an awkward angle, trying to alleviate the tension in her shoulders.
She finds herself fidgeting with the zoom feature on her camera irritably, red nails clicking as they clench at the sides of the neck and slowly twist. The camera, though now in a manual slumber, makes a barely audible squeaking noise. She glances down, realizes what she's doing, and releases the camera, suddenly dumping five more pounds of tension in her neck-strap and neck.
She's nervous. She won't lie when she says that she feels a slight sense of foreboding, a slight tingle of apprehension.
The target is easy enough. She doesn't ask questions about his background or his personality. All she knows is that a deal has been struck.
And it has been the wrong one.
Normally, this doesn't bother her. Work is work, and work is cheap. New York—her hometown—would be a beautifully easy place to eliminate unwanted baggage, and the fact that she is familiar with the environment would only make the hit so much easier.
But there is an independent variable that has broken into this daily groove.
An interloper.
The arrogant tourist ruse, to a lesser extent, worked relatively well. She knows that the camera dangling from her neck nearly cinched the picture—as well as the terribly dyed, so un-fashionable hair—but knows also that she didn't have the walk down right. She was too cocky for her own good.
In short: she got lazy.
And someone noticed.
She is not sure—to be completely honest—whether or not the man that noticed her is a complete threat, but she knows that he has created a new problem in her plan and that if unwatched, might grow into something dangerous.
Another intersection. She tries to act like most of the New Yorkers: traffic laws are, if anything else, guidelines, and at a red light, she can cross the street, no sweat. The taxis aren't stupid; they'll stop.
So she toes the line, one tennis-shoed foot braced at the edge of the curb while her body leans itself in the direction of traffic, looking for an opening to run through.
She is just getting ready to move when the cell phone in her back pocket buzzes.
Abruptly she leans backwards—a kid who realizes they don't want to go off the diving board—and reaches one hand into the pocket, quickly coming out with her phone and flipping it open.
"Hello?" A shoulder nudges her slightly to the left.
"Well?"
The light turns green. Trying to keep an eye on the street in front of her as well as pay attention to the conversation at hand, she moves forward.
The camera thwacks against her stomach painfully.
"I got the pictures."
Silence. "Is that all?"
She reconsiders the circumstances of the situation, and thinks carefully as to whether or not she should tell her employer of the possibly dangerous variable.
"No." She says after a beat. "I think we might have an interloper."
A grunt comes from across the line, hinting at something resembling mild irritation.
"How dangerous?"
She has learned from experience that if she wants to save her own ass in the future, she'll be as honest as possible with her employer…to an extent.
"I'm not sure yet," she replies carefully, her own mind racing over what she had seen in the corner of her eye, and what her instinct tells her. "He recognized me as being out of place, but I think that's it."
"Did you get an I.D.?"
"No," she responds, once again frank. "I tried to avoid eye-contact."
"Any ideas?"
She shrugs, jumping to the side as a scruffy looking teenager barges his way through the current. Damn tourist.
"I don't know. I'm thinking he looks just like every other middle-aged, athletic, white male in New York."
The employer is silent. Seconds go by.
A twinge of fear seizes her as she contemplates the idea that he might have hung up, but then she hears a heavy sigh.
"Be careful, Hailey."
"Yes, sir."
The phone goes dead.