Dense, dark smoke was already beginning to spill out through the cracks in the windows of the house at number 69 Donivoa Street, rising against the afternoon sky like a silent signal flare. The crackling of the flames, however, grew fainter as Michael kept his steady, measured steps away from that scene. He walked along the sidewalk without changing his pace, eyes fixed on the horizon, oblivious to the curious glances of the few pedestrians who were starting to notice the smell of burning in the air.
Minutes later, the silence of the neighborhood was cut by the deafening sound of sirens. Red fire trucks and emergency vehicles turned the corner at high speed, throwing flashing lights against the facades of the houses and pulling residents out of their routines. The responders jumped out quickly, unrolling hoses and beginning procedures to fight the fire that was devouring the wood and masonry structure. While chaos and cries for help from inside the property drew all the attention of the authorities and the neighbors gathering in the street, Michael had already vanished completely from the perimeter. For all intents and purposes, he had never been there.
His walk continued for several blocks until the urban landscape gradually changed. The smell of smoke gave way to the fresh scent of fruit, vegetables, and wet earth as he approached a street market in the center of the neighborhood. The movement of vendors and customers created a constant flow of people, the perfect environment for anyone who wanted to hide in plain sight.
Michael approached one of the wooden stalls with his usual serene posture. Without hurry, he carefully selected a few apples with bright red skin, very ripe oranges, a bunch of perfectly yellow bananas, and a box of fresh strawberries. He handed the fruit to the vendor, paid the exact amount in cash, took the bags, and continued on his way.
As he crossed the residential blocks toward his building, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen to check the time. The digital clock read exactly 16:00.
The timing was running exactly within the margin he had planned. Without breaking stride, Michael found the contact in his list and placed the call to Lydianne. The call rang no more than twice before she answered.
— Michael? — Lydianne's voice came through the speaker, still carrying traces of the nervousness that had gripped her earlier. — Do you need anything?
— I need Josiane's personal phone number — Michael replied, his tone impeccably flat, without showing any trace of the confrontation from earlier.
On the other end of the line came the sound of papers being moved quickly as Lydianne processed the request.
— Right, just a second... I have it written down here — she said, keeping her voice low. She recited the digits slowly so he could note them down. — Did you get the number?
— Yes — said Michael, committing the sequence of numbers to memory with ease.
— What are you going to do now? She's still putting pressure on us, Michael. The deadline she gave ends tonight.
— That's exactly why I called — he stated, cutting off any hint of panic. — Before we hang up, I want you to send her a message right now. Tell her the money has been arranged and confirm the exact location where the delivery will be made. Keep the tone cowed, like you're just following her orders.
— All right... I'll send the message immediately — Lydianne answered, letting out a heavy sigh of relief at feeling the gears turning. — Be careful.
— Keep to your routine — Michael finished.
Without waiting for a reply, he ended the call and put the phone back in his blazer pocket. He kept walking with the bags of fruit in one hand, watching the afternoon light begin to fade, while mentally mapping out the final step to isolate and definitively neutralize the threat posed by Josiane.