Mercer
The café I hide in isn’t exactly in the best shape. It’s dimly lit, and the feeble light casts long shadows that dance around the space, playing hide-and-seek with the flickering pendant lamps hanging over each table.
The air is heavy with a scent of stale bitterness that’s somehow comforting, a blend of dark coffee and musty old books that reminds me of my days at university. It permeates every nook and cranny, seeping into the tattered upholstery and peeling wallpaper, giving the café a palpable sense of history.
All things considered, it’s not the worst place to fit the pieces of one’s life back together.
The creaking floorboards under foot only add to the aesthetically gloomy atmosphere, their protestations like melancholic sighs echoing my mood. I keep my head down and make for a corner at the very back of the café where I can pretend that I don’t exist.
Raindrops cling to the window, blurring the view of the outside world and merging with the ambient sounds of the café—the soft murmurs of conversations, the delicate clinks of porcelain cups, and the occasional gust of wind that rustles the leaves outside.
The delicate notes of a somber piano playing over the speakers is nearly a bridge too far, but I’m not here for the atmosphere, just the anonymity. And the free wifi.
When I pull out my laptop and crack it open, I physically recoil at what I see reflected back at me in the dark screen. I’m looking… rough. Hair disheveled, face bruised from my tussle with Wade’s guard, and clothes wrinkled and unkempt from a night on the lam.
I look nothing like those polished businessmen I need to be for magazines and boardrooms. I look like I’ve aged ten years in the span of just as many hours, and the events that led me to this crummy little café come rushing back with a suddenness that nearly paralyzes me.
The sharp crack of gunfire still echoing in my ears, the brief, heart-stopping moment I believed that the bullet was meant for me, bracing myself for the searing pain and the surge of adrenaline. And then crashing back to a reality that was somehow just as unacceptable.
Charlie, my brother in all of the ways that counted, lying in a pool of his own blood, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. The world around me fades into a blur, leaving only his twisted face etched in my mind—the memory of watching whatever spark that made Charlie who he was just… disappear.
It was too much. It wasn’t right that I couldn’t even mourn because Charlie’s killer was still out there, and it was only a matter of time before they came gunning for me. The thought spurs me into motion as I boot up my laptop and plug in the pen drive. With a few clicks, I open the file inside and start to read, and as I do, my brow furrows.
It’s a list of… names? Nothing more, just names. What the fuck did Wade want with this?
Then, I recognize one name and then another, and the more I do, the colder I get. Politicians, celebrities, some of high society’s most prominent old-money movers and shakers, every single person on this list is somebody. And, given what Charlie told me of Wade’s alleged crimes, he didn’t get where he is today on his own.
The data here hints at more than just tax evasion and money laundering schemes. There’s a dark underbelly of corporate rot and systematic corruption that could easily spell the end for anyone caught in the crossfire if this were ever leaked.
This is a dangerous bit of information that I have. The kind of information someone like Senator Wade would kill to have.
“Mercer Williams…”
My head shoots up to the small television behind the front counter, where I see my face staring back at me from the news.
“...Wanted in connection for the murder of longtime business partner Charlie Sayton…”
Shit. Shit. In the span of mere moments, things had just officially gone from bad to the worst possible outcome. I was already running for my life, the last goddamn thing I need is to be on the run from the law, too.
My chest feels tight as desperation starts to seep in. This, I wasn’t prepared for. I’d been contemplating the best way to go to the police, which was already going to be difficult considering how many department chiefs are on Charlie’s list. If I rock up to a station, I’ll be arrested on sight, and there’s no doubt in my mind that Wade will ensure that if I go in, I’m not making it back out.
I need to clear my name.
I need a plan.
I already know that CCTV footage will be of no use to me. If any cameras caught my presence at the crime scene, they would also expose the senator’s involvement. He would never let such damning evidence see the light of day, so I can fairly assume that whatever there may have been is as good as gone. What I need is a witness—someone who can vouch for my innocence, a voice to counter the lies that threaten to consume me.
And there’s only one that stands out—the bike messenger. My mind once again returns to the woman who discovered us just as shots started firing. If anyone could corroborate the timeline of events from that night, it’s her. If I’m lucky, Charlie’s been on her mind, too, along with a burning desire to see justice served.
Just like that, a spark ignites—inspiration. I wrack my brain, trying to recall the name of the messenger company printed across the front of the padded envelope that had carried the pen drive. I do a quick search of couriers in the area until I find one whose logo rings a bell. Lucky for me, they have a corporate number listed. Now, all I can do is hope that they’re not too tight-assed about sharing the company directory. If I can figure out the identity of the woman who delivered that package, perhaps I’ll have myself a witness, someone who can substantiate my story and help clear my name. I grab my phone from my pocket and dial the number of the mailing company, anxiety gnawing its way through my gut with each ring.
“Good morning,” a masculine voice answers on the other end, his cheery tone jarring juxtaposed to my current frame of mind. “Pedal Airlines, how may I help you?”
“Hello,” I reply, attempting to maintain a facade of composure, repressing the part of me that wanted to bark orders and demand answers. “I have a bit of an odd request I was hoping you could help me with. I need to know who delivered a package to this address last night.”
I rattle off the address to Lodestar Skylines and wait.
“I’ll check our records for you. Give me a moment, please,” the operator replies before going silent. It’s only for a few moments but long enough to set my teeth on edge. “I can’t tell you who delivered the package, but I can give you the address of the local office the package was likely sent from. Someone at the front desk should be able to help you.”
I lean forward in my seat, pen at the ready. “I can work with that.”
“Can I ask what you need this information for?” he asks, his bubbly tone taking on a cautious edge that wasn’t unexpected. “Just in case you’re about to go postal on some poor delivery kid. You know, CMA and all that.”
“CMA?”
“Covering my ass,” he says, deadpan.
“Right.” In a way, I suppose that’s exactly what I’m doing, too. “No worries, I’m just trying to send a tip their way. They left so fast the other night we didn’t get the chance.”
The voice on the other end of the line shifts, brightening as if he’s smiling. “Good on you, man. I hope you find who you’re looking for!”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
I hang up the phone and start googling, and soon I find the local office for Pedal Airlines. It isn’t much, but it’s a next step, a path forward when not much else is clear, and the options available to me aren’t exactly forthcoming.
With a heavy sigh, I come to a sobering realization. The pen drive clutched tightly in my hand is both my greatest weapon against the senator, and it’ll be the final nail in my coffin if anyone on Wade’s payroll catches me with it. While it holds all of the information needed to expose the senator’s myriad schemes, it’s not enough to clear my name in Charlie’s murder, and that needs to be my priority.
Resolve steadies me as I make up my mind. Against my better judgment, I snap the pen drive in half with a resounding crack that reverberates through my bones. I take a second to make peace with the fact that there’s no going back and toss the broken pieces into a nearby mop bucket.
It is a risky bet, a high-stakes wager on the hope that this wasn’t the end. A web of lies like Wade’s is impossible to make disappear, and before this is done, I’ll need to be the one to dig it up.
But I won’t be able to do it alone. I let determination fuel me because it’s all that I have left as I close my laptop, place it carefully in my bag, and rise from the worn table. I keep my head down, tugging my water-stained cap low over my brow as I make my exit.
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