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—— CHAPTER ONE ( SAN FRANCISCO. )
The onset of spring arrived in San Francisco with a gentle breeze drifting through the streets, leaving a faint chill that kissed the cheeks and nose, coloring them with a delicate shade of crimson. Seated, uncomfortably, atop the woven wicker chair of a local restaurant, Ben Abreau sharply surveyed the busy roads of the city with his black Ray-Bans hanging lowly at the crook of his nose. He was reclined, one knee hoisted above the other, and his jaw rested on his clenched fist. He wore a weathered 2007 Boston Red Sox Championship cap, shielding his face from the searing midday sun.
Drumming resonated through the air, his lengthy nails chattering against the plastic of the red Coca-Cola cup. The din of the city had been drowned out by the simple pattering of plastic and his unwavering focus remained undeterred by the frivolous chatter nearby, the rhythmic tapping of a dog's paws on the concrete sidewalk, or the sudden roar of a motorcycle slicing through the bustling streets. His attention had been detrimental to his mission – he could not allow his thoughts to stray from the scene before him. His target had been slippery, avoiding the public eye at all costs, but she was not completely invisible.
He ceased for a moment, his fingers curling around the damp cup and touching the brim of the cup with his lips. The skin went damp around the mouth as he sipped from the brisk, murky liquid of an iced tea. His eyes never left the apartment opposite him.
On the tranquil street corner rests an old apartment building, a stoic guardian of days long gone. Its weathered facade, once painted in vivid hues, now bears the gentle wear of years under the sun and rain, each mark a testament to the passage of countless seasons. The intricate embellishments surrounding the windows and door frames, reminiscent of a more opulent era, offer a glimpse into the painstaking artistry that went into its creation.
Ben understood the appeal of the building when he looked at it through the eyes of his target, willing himself to remember the way she once went about her day, recalling her small actions and comments of life. The building hugged two others, both more lively and modern, attracting audiences that would wrap around the street and often hide the apartment from brief and casual glances. If no one were looking for it, no one would find it, just like her. But for Ben, he was looking for her, and his eyes never once drifted to the crowds that grew in size as the clock ticked.
His nostrils flared at the gentle hum of his BlackBerry vibrating inside his left pocket. The temptation to ignore the call was enticing, but Ben reconsidered the consequences of letting the phone ring wasn't worth the sweet moments of satisfaction he'd receive, knowing he made the man frustrated, and yet he did it anyway. The ringing continued for a prolonged period, catching the attention of the other customers, who looked at him strangely, before quieting quickly. He sipped his tea delicately, patiently waiting for the next call to ring out.
The shrill ringing erupted once again, and this time, Ben fished his phone from his pocket and brought it to his ear. "Abreau." Phil's stern and scolding tone made Ben's lips curl into an arrogant smirk. "Status report."
