by S.L. Jordan

“Fuck” I cursed myself just as the wind from the Atlantic Ocean decided to sweep in and all but make a mockery of the light fall jacket I had foolishly thrown on this morning.

I knew better. I wasn’t one of these newly transplanted Kween’s Portian’s that traipsed around the Central Business District, or the CBD as they lovingly called it, sipping their extremely over-priced caffeinated beverages. This time of year, the day could start out perfectly find and end with you in a parka. Today was one of those days, and here I stood on the corner of Bonaparte Blvd and Chase street barely covered in a slip dress, sheer mock turtleneck, tights that I hadn’t worn in years and already have 2 very large runs circling my legs, these wretched heels I borrowed from Aftlyn, and the thinnest of saving graces – a light trench. 

I ducked my head and gathered the coat tighter around me in hopes of keeping any body heat I had close. The curly wig I had slapped on to cover my hair was barely holding on as the night got windier. 

Ding.

As soon as the signal allowed I hustled across the street and continued down Chase street to my stop. Every few steps I tentatively touched the folder hidden in my waist trainer. I had no idea what the manila folder contained, just that an anonymous source reached out and said this is what I had been looking for.

For the last year I had been making the rounds on hacker boards and chat groups online looking for a way into the underground, the dark web, whatever they call it. I needed in. There were some files I needed from the District Attorney’s office that were not exactly public record. It took about 7 months, but three months ago I finally made the connections I needed and was invited to a secret VPN that had some of the best hackers in the world floating around the chat groups.  

I never made a direct ask.

I left hints. Small bread crumbs. 

Just waiting for the right person to talk the bait.

Last night, I received a message that a folder would be waiting for me at Rental a Box. A fake ID was left taped to the bottom of the bench of the stop outside my apartment building, hence the wig and ridiculous outfit. 

I made my way down the steps into the warmth of the subway tunnel. 

Now that I had the folder my adrenaline pumped through my veins at the speed of light. I couldn’t go home, not right now, I was too wired.

I pulled out my phone and texted Icene.

“WYA?”

Perfect, I thought just what I needed to take the edge off.

“OMW”

Author’s note: This is an extreme rough draft. I jumped out the shower – where most of this was written in my head- and sat down to immediately get this down. As I use the end of the year to put the final touches on Nightwatcher Vol. I, I have been thinking about where the story could go from Vol. II. There are a few things in between the volumes, but I will be rolling that out later.