One week ago, Striker had woken up expecting life to carry on like normal—as in, how it had been carrying on for the past two months.

Sweet silence, he thought.

Sort of. He’d had no communication from any potential employers—or the team—for that those two months, and as much he wanted to deny it, the quiet was lulling him into a state of peace. This was a new feeling for him.

Striker’s apartment was only big enough for himself. He’d picked it because it was hidden amongst a thousand identical apartments in one of the dozens of similar complexes throughout the city. It was a private place where nobody bothered him or asked questions. The shady neighbors left him alone only because he was even shadier, and they never gave anything more than a nod or murmur of greeting. This pleased him. The only thing he changed was his name, and that was for the sole purpose of collecting his mail and paying his bills. Another alias for another city.

He was actually starting to like this one.

That particular day, he had risen late simply because he could. Payments from the last job were still rolling in, and he had at least another six months before they stopped. If he really wanted to, he could well afford a high-end apartment in one of the nicer districts. He took walks through there sometimes. He would gaze up at the glassy high-rises, wondering how many hundreds of square feet the tenants got to enjoy. Grand pianos, lavish galas—the whole works, probably. It was a life he’d never tasted, and never would as long as he continued like this. Leading a life of luxury always drew too much attention.

The two little dusty rooms he called home were much more under the radar. He wandered to the fridge and peered inside. Not much, as usual. He didn’t believe in keeping a lot of food around—not when he’d been forced to abruptly vacate places as many times as he had. He needed to buy milk, though. Cereal was his weakness. Nothing in the world was more disappointing than pouring a big bowl of Lucky Charms and then finding out there was no milk to put on it.

“Might was well use it as an excuse to go outside,” Striker said, shutting the fridge door.

After shrugging on his coat, Striker left his apartment and locked it behind him. He thumped down the hundred and fifty-two stairs to the ground floor with his hands in his pockets. It looked sunny out. Striker almost swept past the mail room on his way to the front doors, but hesitated. It had been a couple days since he’d checked his mail, but part of him wondered why he had stopped at all. Instinct was the only thing that could make him hesitate.

He sighed and turned into the mail room. It was even more cramped than his apartment, and far too small for a building of this size. It had been full of physical mailboxes at one point in history, but they had all since been dry-walled over and converted into light sockets or charging stations.

The room was empty, thank goodness. The holomail pad was in the center of the room, free of the usual crowd of teenagers with nothing better to do, or old people trying to figure out how to access their messages. Striker stepped up to the rounded edge of the pad and fished his I.D. key from his back pocket. When he swiped it over the reader, it beeped, and the hologram of his inbox popped to life.

He had a single message.

Striker swept his key over it without a second thought and downloaded it to his profile. He tapped in the logout code and, after glancing around to be sure the mail room was still empty, plugged his key into the jack of his phone. Half a second later, there was a ding, and the message appeared on the screen.

To the man named Striker,

(555)-324-5590 ext. SBC 212.

I have eighteen million waiting for you.

-C.D.

Striker took a second glance and then clicked the screen off. He removed the key and stuffed the phone in his coat pocket before striding out of the mailroom. He left the building through the creaky front door and walked into the shabby streets outside.

Weeds peeked through every crack in the sidewalk, coated in the fine, white dust settling over the street from the loud construction site a few lots down. Jackhammers and drills filled the whole street with angry noises—only worsened by the stray dog barking somewhere and the two women screaming on the next block over.

Striker shoved his hands on his pockets and walked fast. He waited until he was in a comfortable, quieter abandoned alleyway to make the call.

“I’ve been expecting to hear from you,” the garbled voice said on the other end.

“For that much money, you should be. Is this call secure?”

“Of course.”

“How can I be sure?”

“Surely if I can spare eighteen million for a small job like this, I can make a cellular call secure.”

“Okay. I couldn’t help but notice you have an off-planet extension. You operate from a station or a spacecraft?”

“That’s not important. I was hoping you’d be more interested in the job.”

“All right. But before I accept the job, I need some preliminaries. What can you tell me about you or your organization?”

“Not much. Just that I’m about to enter into a transaction and I need… collateral, so to speak. Oh, and if you fail me, you probably won’t live long enough to let the word spread.”

Striker laughed. “If you already have that type of manpower, why hire me?”

“I’m outsourcing. It’s a business move. Now are you interested in the eighteen million or not?”

“What’s the job?”

“A mother and three children.”

Striker hesitated—again.

“Well?” the voice asked. “Can you do it?”

“Yes… but I have conditions.”

”I don’t do fancy. Keep it simple, Mr. Striker.”

“It is. I want seven million up front, and a face-to-face meeting with either you or one of your people.”

“I see.... The seven million is no problem. But the most I can offer in the way of a spokesperson is a holo-stream with one of my associates. Maybe. Nothing more.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“It doesn’t have to be for what I’m paying you.”

“Forward the details, and we’ll hash out the rest in this potential holo-stream. When do you want to speak again?”

“In six hours. Can you have your men ready by then?”

“Approximately.”

“Do better. I’ll call you soon.”

The call went dead. Striker pulled back and looked at the screen, wondering how this ‘C.D.’ would be able to call him back. But then again, he’d somehow gotten his hands on Striker’s holomail address and assured a secure call. He probably had connections.

Striker pushed his hair back and huffed. “Call Phantom.”

The screen lit up with Phantom’s avatar—a cartoon ghost. While it was ringing, Striker glanced around to make sure he was still alone. He shouldn’t have worried. This place was too tucked into the wall for anyone to see him. He glanced at the sky. Clear blue showed between the rotting buildings and puffs of industrial smoke. Sunlight glittered beyond the rooftops. For a crowded, decrepit sector of an old city, it was a beautiful day. No gunshots, no telltale bass that foretold the approach of a local gang. Just the same, odd peace he had woken up with this morning.

“And all I got up for today was to buy milk,” Striker said.

Phantom picked up. It was time to get the team back together.