TWO

8:24 AM

Middle Park, Algonquin, Liberty City

There were two of them.

Medium build, casually attired, nothing remarkable about either except for the fact that they were too unremarkable. The Emissary was on the intersection of Columbus Avenue and Manganese Street near Middle Park and its guests were wealthy tourists and business executives, men and woman adorned with designer garments. In an everyday crowd, the two would've blended in, but not here.

Arcade saw them the instant she was through the main entrance. They were standing in front of the elevators at the far end of the ornate lobby, their backs to her. Both stood completely still, one with hands in pockets and the other with arms folded, waiting. If any words passed between them, they did so without any change in body language.

The grand lobby was quiet, less than a dozen people occupying space. It had a high ceiling, marbled floor and pillars, an abundance of exotic potted plants set throughout, green leather armchairs grouped together in the corners and central space. Arcade headed toward the front desk that ran along the wall to her right, walking at a relaxed, casual pace despite the potential danger. She kept the men in her peripheral vision at all times, ready to act should one look her way. She hadn't fully made up her mind about the duo but in Arcade's business, a potential threat was a definite thread until proved otherwise. In the lobby she was exposed, vulnerable, but nothing in her demeanor betrayed that. She drew no attention from the other people in the room. She acted and looked just like them-uninterested.

Fellow practitioners of Arcade's profession were popularly believed to dress only in black but looking like a cliché wasn't high on Arcade's priorities. Like most people, she looked good in black, too good for someone whose life might depend on going unnoticed. Dressed in a charcoal suit, white cotton shirt and matching black tie, Arcade looked every inch the respectable businesswoman. The suit was wool, off the rack, excellent quality but one size too big to give her some extra room at the hips, thighs, arms and shoulders, but without appearing too ill fitting. Her glasses were simple and haircut trimmed into a long bob, parted right with her only anomaly being her canvas shoes. It was the only defining physical trait about her, besides the glasses as it would stand out to certain crowds as she should be wearing oxfords, but alas she chose to wear those canvas shoes as they reminded her of a simpler time.

She chose the attire to create a bland, neutral persona. Anyone who tried to remember Arcade would find it difficult to describe her accurately. She was a woman in a suit, like millions of others in the city, aside from the glasses the only distinguishing feature that might go unnoticed aside from the shoes. She was smart about being stylish, neat but ordinary. Confident but not arrogant. Forgettable.

She reached the desk and smiled politely as the raven-haired receptionist looked up from her work. She had tanned skin and large eyes, her features skillfully and subtly made up. Her returning smile was cheerfully shallow. She hid it well but Arcade knew she would rather be anywhere else.

"Hello" Arcade said, but not too loudly. "I'm calling from Room 407. I'm Ms. Rieper, can you tell me if I received any messages?"

"Just one moment, please."

She made a curt nod and checked the log. There was a large mirror mounted on the wall behind the desk in which Arcade watched the reflections of the two men. The elevator doors opened they parted to allow a couple to exit before entering themselves, almost in unison. He saw their hands, they were wearing gloves.

Arcade moved position to get an angle on the elevator interior but could see only the reflection of one of the men inside. Arcade kept her head tilted to one side, her face partially shielded in case the man looked her way. The man had fair skin and a square face. Clean shaven. He wore a focused expression, staring straight ahead, arms limp at his sides. His gloves were brown leather. Either he had a deformed ribcage or something handgun shaped was concealed beneath his nylon jacket. Any doubts Arcade harboured about their motives now evaporated.

Were they the LCPD? No, she decided. It was barely two hours since she'd took out Stratov and there was no way she could have been linked to the crime in such a short time frame. They weren't operatives either. Intelligence agents wouldn't need to wear gloves. That left only one occupation.

Arcade guessed Eastern European—a Czech or Hungarian or maybe from the Balkans, which tended to produce particularly effective killers. She'd seen two but there could have easily been more. Two guns are better than one, but a whole team would be better still for obvious reasons, especially when the target was an experienced fixer. Only the very best can afford to work alone.

The way the men acted suggested there were others. They had no care of their surroundings, no worry about security. That said surveillance. That in turn spoke of a larger team. There could be as few as 4 or as many as 10. If there were more, Arcade didn't give herself much of a chance.

The fact that they knew where she was staying required a considerable level of proficiency or accuracy of intelligence. Until Arcade knew who she was up against, she couldn't afford to underestimate them. She had to work on the assumption that they were atleast her equal. Should she be proved wrong it would only work to her advantage.

The receptionist finished checking the log and shook her head. "I'm sorry Miss, no messages for you at the moment."

As Arcade thanked her, she watched the man in the elevator focused expression disappear, replaced for a moment with pain or deep concentration. The man raised a finger to his right ear before looking quickly to his associate. His mouth opened to speak as he reached to stop the doors from shutting, but he was too late, Arcade managed to read the first words on his lips before the doors closed.

She's in the lobby.

They were wearing radios, she's been spotted.

Arcade turned around and surveyed the area, taking a few seconds to study each person in case she'd missed other members of the kill team. The natural reaction to the imminent threat would be to act immediately. In the physiological response to danger the adrenal glands flooded her bloodstream with adrenaline to increase her heart rate, to make the body ready for action. But relying on instinct was not something she welcomed. In the wild, it only ever came down to two choices-fight or flight. For Arcade, decisions were rarely that simple.

She swallowed down the adrenaline jolt, breathed deeply, forcing her body to calm down again. She needed to think, there was nothing to gain by acting quickly if in doing so she did the wrong thing. In Arcade's line of work, those who made the first mistake were rarely around long enough to make a second.

She counted 10 people in the lobby. A middle-aged man, and his trophy escort were heading toward the adjoining bar. A group of stiff-backed old men sat on the leather chairs laughing. The alluring receptionist was stifling a yawn. Walking near the exit a business man shouted into his cell phone. Near the elevator, a mother struggled to control her toddler. No one who might be with the two men, but more could be entering the hotel through the tradesman's entrance at the back or maybe through the kitchen, simultaneously cutting off all avenues of retreat as they closed in on their prey. It was text book, but no use if that prey wasn't where she was supposed to be.

For whatever reason, their timing was off and the plan they'd been following had seemingly fallen apart. They would be shaken, worried they had been compromised and that their target might escape. They'd lost sight of her, and needed to reestablish that contact, or perhaps they would just abandon any pretense of stealth and try to kill her now, while they thought her vulnerable and off guard. Arcade had no intentions of being either.

She studied the display above the elevator. It flashed 4, reaching her floor. She watched it intently for a moment. A few seconds later, it flashed 3, on the way back down.

Arcade glanced at the main entrance. If she left now, she would only have those on surveillance outside to contend with. They might not be prepared to go after her out in the street, and if she was as fast as she thought, she might escape without a single shot fired. But she couldn't leave. In her hotel room, she had her passport and credit cards. All for a false identity but they already knew too much about her.

She could use the stairs but not if one of them had taken that way down to make sure she didn't. Because there was another problem, she was unarmed. The H&L Five-seveN that killed Stratov had been stripped and each component disposed of separately. The barrel dumped in the Humboldt River, slide down a storm drain, guide rod and recoil spring in a dumpster, magazine in a trash can. Arcade only ever used a gun once. Walking around with all the evidence a jury would ever need to convict her was not her style. If she could get to her backup, she could atleast defend herself properly.

There was only one functioning elevator though. An out-of-order sign dangled from the other's doors. Arcade strolled across the lobby and stood in front of the working elevator the two men had used. She exhaled a slow breath until the ting reverberated throughout the lobby. Just before the doors began to open, Arcade stepped to one side and pressed her back against the adjacent wall in a small recess where an elaborately decorated vase stood. She remained motionless, ignoring the bewildered gaze of a 5-year-old boy. Everyone else was too preoccupied to notice her.

One of the two assassins walked out of the elevator and took a few steps into the lobby. The second didn't follow, obviously on her way down through the stairwell. The man with his back to Arcade was compact, thick at the neck, ex-military by his build and gait. He was standing casually, no head movement. Even though apparently motionless, Arcade figured he was surveying the room, but with his head fixed, just moving his eyes not wanting to draw unnecessary attention his way. He was good, but not so good as to look behind himself.

Arcade waited until the last possible moment before slipping between the closing elevator doors. She passed within six inches of the assassin.

A second before the doors fully closed, the man noticed the young boy pointing in Arcade's direction and turned. Random chance. For an instant, the man looked directly at Arcade.

Recognition flashed in the assassin's eyes.

The doors closed.