March 27, 2008
The late afternoon light filtered through the tall, grimy windows of the industrial loft, painting long golden rectangles across the scarred concrete floor. Kestrel stood motionless in the center of the open space, his sharp eyes taking in every detail—the exposed beams overhead, the heavy steel columns, the faint smell of old machine oil that still lingered despite years of vacancy. This wasn’t just an apartment; it was a potential command center, hidden in plain sight in a part of downtown that still felt forgotten by the world. Perfect for the operation he had in mind, where they could watch and plan without the world watching back.
“How many DSL outlets does this place have?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly.
“Four,” the real estate agent replied, a no-nonsense woman in a tailored blazer. “Most tenants install a wireless router so they can work anywhere, even out on the roof deck.”
He shook his head. “Not a big fan of wireless. Even with good encryption, it’s too easy to hack.”
The woman laughed lightly. “You sound just like the tenant on the third floor. He runs a popular porn site. What line of work are you in, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not nearly as fun,” he replied with a wry smile. “Import-export, logistics. Boring as hell most of the time. The best part? I get to work from home.”
“It really is an amazing world these days. I practically live out of my car half the time.” She gestured around the space. “This loft is perfect for someone who values privacy and space.”
“I like the roof access. How do you get out there?”
The woman crossed the wide floor, her heels clicking, and heaved one of the large industrial windows upward. A gust of cool air rushed in, carrying the distant rumble of traffic and the sharp tang of the city. “Right this way.”
They stepped out onto the flat gravel-and-tar roof. The wind tugged at their clothes. From this height, the view stretched across downtown. His gaze immediately locked onto the faded, ornate building several blocks away—the Imperial Hotel. Even from here, it looked imposing.
“This area hasn’t been gentrified yet,” the agent continued, raising her voice over the wind, “so the streets can feel a little sketchy at night. But up here, you’re completely safe. The building has excellent security, and the square footage is unbeatable for the price. You just have to be a bit more adventurous than the average tenant.”
He leaned against the low parapet, mentally mapping alleys, sightlines, and blind spots. The view stirred memories of older operations back east. “I like it,” he said finally. “The view is exactly what I need.”
The agent smiled. “Lovely, isn’t it? It has that old-school feel. So… what do you think?”
He took one final look at the Imperial before turning back. “I’ll take it.”
***
March 30, 2008
“Lovely,” said Collins, his South African accent slipping through. “So this is home?” The thin Black man adjusted his spectacles, posture prim and proper as always.
“For you and your boys,” Kestrel replied, closing the heavy door with a solid thud. The loft was still mostly bare except for three large pin-up boards arranged in the center.
“Where will you be?” Collins asked.
“On the road.”
“Chasing leads?”
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“Something like that.” He moved to the kitchen area. “Want to help christen the new coffee maker?”
“Tea if you have it.”
“Yup.”
“Earl Grey?”
“Lipton’s Orange Pekoe.”
“It’ll do.” Collins approached the boards while he filled the kettle. Collins studied the photos: the victims from twenty years ago and the recent ones were eerily similar, differing only in fashion and minor grooming. The satellite map on the third board showed blue pins for old dump sites and red for new ones, with a purple-outlined building sitting almost perfectly in the center.
Kestrel pointed to a pink-outlined building. “We are here. The purple one is the Imperial Hotel. Notice how close it sits to all the dump sites.”
“Hard to miss,” Collins said, accepting a mug of tea.
He wheeled the first board. On the reverse was an enlarged old Polaroid, its colors gently faded into warm sepia tones with the unmistakable grain and slightly yellowed white border of classic instant film. It showed a man in his mid-thirties with long, straight black hair flowing past his shoulders, a strong, prominent aquiline nose, high, sharp cheekbones, and intense dark eyes that stared directly into the lens, his gaze quiet and watchful.
“Jesse Strongblood. Former caretaker at the Imperial and the prime suspect in the cold case. He vanished before they could question him.”
He moved to the second board. “Until now.” Multiple night shots showed a hooded man entering a razor-wire fence, walking the streets, and leaving a Guatemalan restaurant. Long-lens images captured a shadowy figure at a high window.
“Guess the building.”
“The Imperial?”
“Yup.” He tapped the photo. “Penthouse. That’s where he’s living now.”
Collins set his mug down, eyes serious.
***
March 31, 2008
Cold night air bit at their skin on the roof. Collins sat near the ledge, laptop glowing on his knees, connected to the tripod-mounted camera. Kestrel stood beside him, night-vision binoculars glued to his eyes. It was three a.m. The city had gone quiet.
“The cat’s in the cradle. Ready with that gizmo?”
“I love how you turn beauty into banalities,” Collins replied, fingers flying over the keys. The camera whirred, zooming across the distance.
“Can we get a close shot of his face?”
“Close enough to count the hairs on his chinny-chin-chin.”
The image resolved. He slowly lowered the binoculars. The face on screen was horrifically disfigured.
“Christ,” he muttered, voice tight. “Now that’s a problem.”
Collins stared at the screen in silence, the blue glow highlighting the deep concern on his face. The wind whistled across the roof as the weight of what they’d just seen settled over them.
***
April 5, 2008
The loft had come alive. Technicians worked efficiently: one constructing a glass server chamber, another running cables across the floor, two mounting a massive wall screen, and a fourth assembling modern office furniture. The air smelled of new equipment and fresh coffee.
Collins entered, passing the new false wall with the clean Apex Freight Logistics LLC logo. The cover was deep enough to buy them months if anyone came snooping.
“How’re we doing?”
“Nearly done,” one tech answered.
Collins joined Kestrel on the roof, where he lounged in a lawn chair, soaking up the pale sunlight. “I’ve scouted six spots to cover all exits and entrances.”
“Great.”
“They’ll need custom camouflage to blend in. Not easy in the city.”
“Can it be done?”
“Yes, but with a thirty percent markup. I’ll need an extra team for speed.”
“Do it. I want eyes on the building twenty-four seven as soon as possible.”
“Understood. Interior?”
“Not yet. They’ve got a Vindicator IDS system—serious stuff. Whatever’s inside, they really don’t want visitors.”
“In this neighborhood, makes sense. Probably protecting valuable antiques… or something else.”
“Anything else?”
“I need a solid legend prepared.”
“Working on names. Once you pick the NOC, we’ll build a strong backstop. How deep?”
“Deep enough a sharp retired detective won’t see through it immediately.”
“That we can handle.”
“Boss, the system’s ready for testing,” a tech called out.
Kestrel rose. “Let’s fire it up.”
Inside, Collins grinned at the crew. “Who wants to be the bad guy?”
The young Korean tech laughed, flipped his cap to the side, and started throwing gang signs with exaggerated swagger. Collins tapped his tablet. A camera activated.
On the big screen, the kid’s face appeared, instantly matched with a DMV photo and data from multiple agencies.
“Damn,” Kestrel said, impressed.
“This pulls from FBI, DMV, Interpol—everything—using backdoors I left open years ago,” Collins explained. “Costs a fortune per ping, but it works.”
“Your old NSA friends know you’re still using this?”
“They pretend not to. After Nisour, they avoid anything that smells like another contractor scandal.”
“But it still can’t ID our guy.”
“Without a face? No.” Collins switched to live tracking as the tech walked across the room. A wireframe model appeared over his body, gait analysis graphs populating rapidly. “But faces aren’t everything. Full-body recognition—build, posture, unique movement patterns. Once it learns him, I can tap every CCTV and traffic cam for blocks around. We’ll shadow the unsub wherever he goes.”
Kestrel whistled softly. “Pricey, but worth every penny.”
not the face anyone was expecting.
What the hell happened to him in that penthouse?
Torture?
A medical experiment?
Something supernatural?
Or is that not even the real Jesse anymore?
What do you think happened to Jesse Strongblood’s face?
