She groaned. Time for work.

Monica swung her legs off the side of her chaise lounge, turning to the side table and setting down her empty glass next to the ashtray, an oval porcelain dish which contained the crumpled stub of this evening’s Arturo Fuente Opus X.

As a corporate “fixer,” she knew her work could come at any time. Her phone would ring, and she’d receive an encrypted message from Pelican, the codename for her colleague who issued all contracts. Then it would be her responsibility to execute the contract and deliver.  She’d never know the identity of the client – that was way above her pay grade, and even her boss, Osprey, didn’t readily have that information. But in truth, she didn’t really care. The real power players in Miami were the zaibatsus; major autocratic corporations, each with its own security force — private armies, really — enforcing their cash flow on the streets while executives bought success in the boardroom. Dozens of minor players, including Monica’s employer Passerine Consulting, navigated this world and provided services to any who had coin. Billions of dollars exchanged hands daily in Miami’s underworld, and Monica knew it was much, much better to be ignorant of these things. Business was business, and if you wanted to survive in the world of corporate espionage, you kept your head down and your eyes open. 

Standing, she took a deep breath, folded up the lounge cushions and piled them nicely on top of the chair. In a moment, the rubber seal on her balcony door made a sucking sound as the door swung inward and she entered the filtered, cool air of her apartment.

Probably thirty-five minutes, she thought; twenty on a good day but traffic into South Beach was a bitch at this hour. She needed to get ready, quickly, so she immediately swapped out her casual house wear for dark jeans, Redwing Iron Ranger boots, graphic tee, and leather jacket. From her closet, she chose a stout leather belt, passing it through the loops on her jeans and threading in the holsters for her sidearm and spare magazines. She grabbed her flashlight and knife and threaded them into her jacket’s welt pockets.

When she first started, the amount of kit made her feel like a beat cop, but over time she got used to it. It was all concealed, of course, and wearing it during her daily regimen of physical training got her accustomed to the weight, feel, and range of motion. Now, it was second nature and she barely noticed it. 

She checked her hair in the mirror and tied back the loose ends with a black elastic tie from her wrist. Long hair was a liability in a fight.

Her last stop was her office, really a walk-in closet just off the main hallway. Secured behind both a numeric keypad and a deadbolt was a tiny, shielded space where Monica kept her most important resources. A small, Scandinavian-style desk occupied one-half of the room, containing her checkbook, car keys, spare data discs, DD-214, condo deed, and spare copies of the title for her Maserati. She never kept any notes or records about her contracts, though, as leaving a paper trail of her jobs would be a mistake of the highest magnitude. She wasn’t worried about the police, as she knew well that they could easily be paid to look the other way. Although there was significant money to be made, the big guys had eyes and ears everywhere, and the last thing you wanted was for them to come looking for you — or to know you were involved in ripping them off. 

She grabbed her keys and dropped them into her right pocket. She reached underneath the desk, her middle finger finding a hidden latch and triggering it. A panel on the opposite wall clicked open, and she turned, surveying her private arsenal. It didn’t rival the tools available to the big-time players, but it was enough – an assortment of small-caliber weapons, electronic countermeasures, devices to fool sensors, and a few knives. All the big firepower was at the office, and somewhat restricted in its use.  

She reached into the locker and removed her daily carry, a Heckler & Koch USP Compact. It wasn’t the most concealable weapon, but it fit well in the hand, the heavy .45 ACP cartridge had good stopping power, and the thing was built to last. German engineering at its finest. With her left hand she racked the slide and locked it back, observing the proper operation of the weapon and the presence of a full magazine. Satisfied, she used her thumb to drop the little paddle and slide slammed forward, chambering a round. She snicked the safety on, and in one fluid motion slipped it into the holster on her right hip. 

She left the office, locked up, and headed for the front door. One last look in the mirror – hair and makeup OK – and she was out into the apartment hallway. One minute and forty seconds later, she was in the subterranean garage, and in another minute, was seated in her Maserati as it glided up the ramp and on to South Bayshore Drive. 

Forty minutes since her last drink, Monica’s car arrived in a small car park a few blocks from the target location. A security precaution. She operated in this area every so often, and luckily, one of her South Beach contacts owned a trendy hotel with a small, yet secure, garage. In exchange for some discounted “consulting”, Monica could use the garage whenever she wanted. The valet, a trusted associate, always got a nice tip to keep her Maserati safe. 

Monica stepped out of the car, waved her finger over the door handle, and heard the tumblers of the door lock spin. She made her way toward the street, slipping through the side door into the alley. Attached to the contract, Pelican had supplied her with more information about the job – she had a picture and name of the target, Adrián Hernandez, along with the item she was meant to “recover” – a data key, not much larger than a candy bar and full of whatever the client wanted. Pretty easy, in theory.

She turned left once, crossing behind some plastic waste bins, and made her way through the narrow passage between two buildings, ducking under some low-hanging palm fronds. Along the left wall must have been some boutique hotel; through the windows she caught sight of the bar, a cozy room full of dark wood and red velvet furniture. A large set of neon lips illuminated the space behind the bar. Two Latino men were the only patrons, and an androgynous bartender faced them, pouring Campari into a glass. Monica coolly swung through the front gate and ruefully thought maybe she’d rather be inside, sipping a Boulevardier in air-conditioned splendor than out here, in the heat and the muck, tracking down some chump for his data key.

She turned the corner. She knew this street well, but nonetheless, took stock of the situation and local area. Just off South Beach, this block of Miami Beach was mostly trendy boutiques, overpriced bars, and big-name fashion stores. Typical tourist traps, and most of them controlled by one of the big corporations in Miami. In some way, almost every business, building, and neighborhood was influenced by one of these enormous enterprises. Monica’s employer wasn’t one of them, instead was one of several dozen smaller players who navigated in their shadows, like tiny finches under the wings of condors.

Monica walked south on 8th Street, passing service alleys that bisected each block. Groups of young people shuffled past, in various states of beach dress, and Monica let them pass, heading toward the target address. She passed by a fancy clothing shop, elegantly-dressed mannequins standing sentinel in the floor-to-ceiling windows. Featureless faces displayed trendy jewelry under bright lights.  

The address specified in Pelican’s communique was a store that sold various types of electronic tobacco products. This wasn’t unusual, and Monica saw all sorts of businesses used as cover: dry cleaning, tattoo places, bodegas, bars, even high-end stores. Most of the people who ran these businesses weren’t the bad guys, so Monica took a pragmatic approach to her work. Violence wasn’t always the answer; in fact, some of her most successful contracts were resolved through smooth talking and diplomacy. It’s much easier to glean a kernel of information or an off-hand confession with a compliment than to beat it out of someone. When it came to recovering physical objects, it was a bit tougher. Either you lifted it when the guy wasn’t looking, cajoled him out of it, paid him, or took it by force.

Like a barracuda, she moved down the sidewalk and between two parked Porsches, stopping to wait for two kids on electric scooters to pass before crossing the street. Parked in front of the shop was a low-slung import coupe, sleek with after-market additions that looked more appropriate for an aircraft than a motor vehicle. While not unseen, it was rare for this part of town, so Monica noted this and stepped into the store.

An elderly woman was sweeping in the far corner. She was quite old, hunched from years of labor. Her wrinkled face showed deep Quechua features, weathered from decades of hard, thankless labor. Probably this guy’s grandmother, she thought, or maybe great-grandmother. 

“Buenas tardes, Doña,” Monica said, using the most respectful term she could. 

“Buenas tardes,” the woman croaked.

“Yo soy una amiga de Adrián. ¿Está él aquí?”

“Eres la Migra?”

“Por supuesto, no. Soy abogada. Por favor, dile a Adrián que lo ando buscando.” Monica was pretty good with Spanish and it helped quite often.

The elderly woman shuffled into the back room, and a few moments later a short, tanned man in a rumpled guayabera emerged. He looked sweaty and tired. A gold medallion was nestled among graying chest hair. This wasn’t the guy in the picture, though. 

“I’m Adrián Hernandez,” he said. She slid her business card across the table, and the guy picked it up.