Rico sat hunched by his ruined scooter, the front axle twisted at an unnatural angle. He ran a practiced hand over the damage, assessing whether the rental could even limp its way back to the rental store. Half an hour ago, his biggest problem had been the sheer, unprofessional incompetence of the observer tailing Wes Chai. The Asian man in the rickety '93 Toyota Corolla, now engaged in a heated debate with a mall cop over a dented fender, had been practically broadcasting his surveillance. Instead of discreetly watching from a distance, he'd been an almost comical fixture, parked in plain sight directly across from Wes's restaurant. It spoke of either a complete amateur, or, more likely, someone so utterly convinced of the target's harmlessness that they'd simply stopped caring. Rico leaned towards the latter; he probably would have felt the same if his target was currently dressed as a Klingon warrior gleefully discussing D&D tactics with his costumed niece and friends.
A sharp vibration from his pocket. Encrypted. HQ. Rico pulled out his phone, the screen displaying a message from Willis, the granite-faced head of Aegis Security himself.
CREATE DISTRACTION. LEAD OBSERVER AWAY FROM WES. KEEP OCCUPIED.
Rico blinked. Confusion warred with ingrained discipline. A distraction? Why now? He re-read the message, the blunt command overriding his questions. Willis didn't issue unnecessary orders. He shoved his momentary bewilderment aside. Task: Distraction. Target: Observer. Method: Immediate.
His eyes scanned the street. The observer's clapped-out Toyota sat parked with a certain careless defiance, practically begging for trouble. Rico's gaze drifted to his own scooter, its small frame unassuming. Perfect.
A plan that was simple to execute and effective, solidified. He'd make it look like an accident. He straightened up, walked over to his scooter, started it, and with a practiced, almost artistic flair, deliberately "lost control" as he approached his target. He swerved, aiming just right, and let the scooter's front wheel ram into the Toyota's passenger side fender with a satisfying crunch of metal. He cursed loudly, theatrically, as he tumbled from the scooter, feigning a grazed knee and a righteous fury. The observer, predictably, erupted from his car, shouting angrily, his attention instantly ripped away from Wes inside the restaurant.
The ensuing chaos was precisely what Rico needed. He immediately called the mall security, waving his hands about, already talking about insurance reports and property damage. The mall cops, bored and methodical, arrived within minutes, initiating the tortuous process of paperwork. It would tie them both up for hours, Rico knew, a beautiful, bureaucratic snare.
As the mall guard slowly began to write out the incident report, the observer frantically rummaging through his glove compartment for vehicle registration details, Rico looked up. Through the bustling foot traffic, he saw Wes Chai step out of the Japanese restaurant. Still in his magnificent Klingon armor, Wes paused, his gaze sweeping the street, then lingering, for a fraction of a second, in Rico's direction. Rico couldn't be sure, but for an instant, he thought he saw a flicker of amusement, perhaps even approval, behind the prosthetics, before Wes turned away and walked deliberately towards the public restrooms in the building across the street.
A few minutes later, Rico's instincts screamed. A Caucasian male, dressed incongruously in a plain baseball cap and a dark jacket, emerged from the same Japanese restaurant. Nothing overtly suspicious in his movements, but there was a stillness, a predatory economy to his stride that prickled Rico's neck. This wasn't a civilian. This wasn't even the clumsy observer. This was something else. This man took off in the same direction Wes had gone.
Rico was torn. His mission was to keep the first tail occupied. But if this new man had any ill intentions towards Wes Chai, the CEO of Aegis's primary client, shouldn't his priority shift? Years of rigid operational protocols, of drilled-in obedience, locked him down. Orders are orders. Keep the tail occupied. That was his mission. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, sending a silent prayer into the humid Manila air that he wasn't making a fatal mistake.
The minutes stretched, thick with suspense. Then, a wave of relief washed over him so potent it almost buckled his knees. Wes Chai, Klingon wig still perfectly coiffed, armor unmarred, stepped out of the restroom building. He looked utterly unfazed, not a hair out of place. Again, Wes's eyes seemed to drift in Rico's direction.
Wes then began to walk directly towards him.
Rico, momentarily flustered, glanced back. The observer gone. Asking the mall guard where the man had gone, the guard, barely looked up from his clipboard and mumbled, "He went inside the security office. Can't find his car registration."
Before Rico could process that, a booming voice, surprisingly close, made him almost jump out of his skin.
"Looks like you really ruined your scooter."
Wes, the Klingon, stood directly in front of him, a faint, almost imperceptible scent of disinfectant clinging to his armor. He looked at the mangled scooter with a casual indifference that sent a chill down Rico's spine. Wes then produced a plain business card and handed it to Rico. "If you need someone to repair it, give this guy a call. He'll take care of everything. Every time I make a mess, he usually helps me out."
With that, Wes brushed past him, a blur of leather and prosthetics, and crossed the street back to the restaurant. He rejoined his friends acting as if he'd simply stepped out for a moment of quiet contemplation.
Rico stared at the spot where Wes had been. Then, he felt an unexpected weight in his jacket pocket. Reaching in, his fingers closed around the smooth, cold plastic of a cellphone and a soft leather wallet. He pulled them out, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Opening the wallet, he found multiple IDs. Different names, different nationalities, but the same face: the man in the baseball cap. The man who had followed Wes into the restroom.
His mind went temporarily blank, the pieces of the puzzle crashing together too fast. He shoved the phone and wallet back into his pocket. He then looked at the business card Wes had given him. It wasn't a scooter repair shop. It was Willis's business card.
Rico had been on enough covert missions to recognize a coded message when he heard one. Excusing himself from the mall cop, he feigned a need to call his insurance agent. Searching around, he found a quiet corner behind a food stall and pulled out his phone. His thumb hesitated over the numbers before hitting dial.
A gruff, no-nonsense voice answered on the first ring. "Willis here."
"Sir, this is Rico." He unconsciously snapped to attention, his voice tight. "Wes Chai just made contact with me and asked me to call you."
"What did he say? Did he give you anything?" Willis's voice was sharp, instantly alert.
"His exact words, sir, were, 'If you need someone to repair it, give this guy a call, he'll take care of everything. Every time I make a mess, he usually helps me out.' He then slipped me a cellphone and wallet of what I think is another operator following him."
There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line, a sound of weary confirmation. "Looks like he made a mess again. Do you know the location?"
"I think so, sir, but I need to verify."
"Do it. Now."
Rico immediately started crossing the street, heading straight for the building with the public restroom. The place was blessedly empty. He closed and locked the door, the click echoing ominously. "At the location, checking now..." he murmured into the phone, his voice hushed.
He moved methodically, checking each cubicle. The last one was closed. He gave it a tentative push. The door swung open, revealing the slumped body of the man in the baseball cap, seated neatly on the toilet, his head at an unnatural angle. Rico checked the pulse, verifying what his eyes already knew. No struggle. No sound. Just a snapped neck.
"Sir, location verified. It's a public restroom. The body of the operator I mentioned is inside the last cubicle with his neck broken. No indication of a struggle."
"He must have taken him out fast," Willis said, a note of grim admiration in his voice. "Call the local HQ and tell them to send Cleaners ASAP to that location. Check the garbage bins if Wes left anything there."
Rico did so, meticulously searching each bin. In two separate containers, he found the disassembled parts of a pistol, a CZ 75, if his eyes weren't mistaken.
"Found a pistol, sir. Looks like a CZ 75. It was disassembled and thrown in separate garbage bins."
"Set those aside and wait for the Cleaners to arrive. Don't let anyone inside that restroom until then. Did Wes's tail make you?"
"I don't think so, sir, but he did see my face when I rammed his car with my scooter to create the distraction and keep him occupied."
"Consider yourself burned then. Take the first flight back to Dubai and report to HQ. And make sure you don't lose the items Wes gave you, especially that phone."
"Roger that." Rico paused, the question burning on his tongue, one he never thought he'd have to ask about a client. "Sir... if I may ask... just who is Wes Chai?"
There was a long beat of silence before Willis answered, his voice lower, almost reverent.
"He's your boss... and mine."