Chapter 7 : Final Preparations
Elena's text came at 6:47 AM.
Michael Westen started taking jobs. First client today. Your window is opening.
I read the message three times, standing in Sheldon's kitchen with coffee going cold in my hand. The timing felt right—two weeks since Michael had been dumped in Miami, long enough for him to get desperate, short enough that he hadn't established patterns I'd need to work around.
The system registered my elevated heart rate without comment.
I'd spent the past week building. Training with Sugar every morning until my body ached in ways I didn't know were possible. Running surveillance jobs for Ruiz's network, each one pushing my skills higher. Meeting with Barry to establish clean cash reserves that couldn't be traced to anyone specific.
All of it leading to this moment.
What kind of job? I texted back.
The response came quickly: Protection work. Client has a problem with a landlord running a protection racket. Westen's helping.
Protection racket. That rang bells from the show—first episode, maybe? The details were fuzzy, but I remembered the broad strokes. Michael helping someone who couldn't go to the police, using spy tradecraft to solve civilian problems.
Where?
I'll send location when I have it. Be ready to move.
I set down the phone and pulled up my system interface. The numbers had been climbing steadily, but looking at them now felt different. This wasn't training anymore. This was the real thing.
Skill
Level
Surveillance
5
Counter-Surveillance
3
Lockpicking
4
Deception
4
Hand-to-Hand Combat
4
Pain Tolerance
2
Defensive Awareness
2
Pattern Recognition
2
Reading People
2
Operational Security
2
Financial Tradecraft
1
Competent. Not exceptional. The system's assessment echoed my own thoughts—I could hold my own in most situations now, but against someone like Michael Westen? Against the caliber of opposition that followed him around?
I'd be a useful tool at best. A liability at worst.
[SYSTEM NOTE: Skill levels 3-5 represent professional baseline competency. Current assessment: Capable of supporting operations, not leading them.]
Fair enough.
I finished my coffee and got dressed—practical clothes, nothing that would stand out. Then I drove to Barry's office.
The money launderer was jumpy, as usual, but he'd done what I asked. Three thousand dollars in clean hundreds, split between two separate caches. One in a bus station locker downtown. One in a safety deposit box at a bank I'd never used before.
"This is a lot of prep for something you won't tell me about," Barry said, fingers drumming on his desk.
"Contingency planning."
"You've been saying that a lot lately." He squinted at me through glasses that needed cleaning. "Level with me, Sheldon. Are you in trouble?"
"Not yet."
"That's not reassuring."
I stood to leave. "It's not supposed to be. Thanks for the help, Barry."
"Yeah, yeah." He waved a hand. "Just remember who your friends are when whatever this is blows up."
From Barry's office, I drove to Sugar's gym. The morning crowd had thinned out, leaving only the serious fighters working bags or sparring in the ring. Sugar was in his back office, reviewing what looked like accounting paperwork.
"Kendrick." He didn't look up. "Thought you had the day off."
"Need to ask a favor."
That got his attention. He set down his pen and leaned back.
"I'm listening."
"If something goes sideways in the next few days—if I need backup or a place to disappear—can I count on you?"
Sugar's expression didn't change, but I saw the calculation happening behind his eyes. We'd built something over the past two weeks. Not friendship, exactly, but professional respect. He'd watched me take beatings without quitting, push through limits without complaining, improve at a rate that probably seemed supernatural.
"Depends on the nature of the sideways," he said finally.
"I'm about to involve myself in someone else's problems. Powerful someone. The kind who attracts attention."
"Michael Westen."
I didn't bother asking how he knew. Sugar's network was better than I'd given him credit for.
"You're connected to Fiona Glenanne," I said. "The show—" I caught myself. "The rumor mill says they're close."
"They have history." Sugar folded his arms. "Why does that matter?"
"Because if I'm going to insert myself into their orbit, I'd rather do it with someone vouching for me. Even indirectly."
A long pause. The gym sounds filtered through the thin walls—bags thumping, someone counting reps, the steady rhythm of effort and discipline.
"Fiona doesn't vouch for people she hasn't tested," Sugar said. "And her tests tend to hurt."
"I can handle hurt."
"You've handled gym hurt. That's different from real hurt."
"I know." I held his gaze. "But I'm doing this either way. I'm just asking if you'll help me survive the process."
Sugar studied me for another moment. Then he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a card—plain white, phone number handwritten in blocky letters.
"That's Fiona's contact line. Tell her Sugar sent you and why. After that, it's up to her."
I took the card. The weight of it felt disproportionate to the paper.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Sugar's voice was flat. "You might wish I'd let you crash and burn on your own."
The rest of the day was logistics. I drove the routes between Sheldon's apartment, Barry's office, Sugar's gym, and a coffee shop I'd identified near where Michael was reportedly staying. Memorized turn options, noted traffic patterns, identified potential surveillance positions.
The system tracked my methodical progress:
[OPERATIONAL PLANNING: +35 XP][ROUTE MAPPING: Data logged for future reference]
By late afternoon, I'd established three different approach vectors to Michael's general area, two bolt-holes if things went wrong, and a communication protocol with Elena that didn't require electronic traces.
I stopped at a beach parking lot as the sun started to descend. The Atlantic stretched endlessly toward the horizon, orange light dancing on the waves. Families were packing up their towels and coolers. A group of teenagers played volleyball with more enthusiasm than skill.
Normal life. The kind I'd had before a drunk driver ran a red light.
I sat on the hood of my car and let myself feel it—the warmth on my skin, the salt smell in the air, the simple human pleasure of existing in a beautiful place. Tomorrow I'd start playing games with dangerous people. Tonight, I could just be someone watching the sunset.
My phone buzzed. Elena.
Location confirmed. Job site is a restaurant on Calle Ocho. Westen doing recon tomorrow morning. Your window.
I read the message, then looked back at the ocean.
One more night of peace.
I set my alarm for 4 AM and drove home.
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