“Wait here,” the guard said as he shut the door behind him, leaving me by myself.
The floor inside the lab was polished, and the air smelled of disinfectant, and yet the room felt unclean. Leaves shook on a tree outside the window, making shadows on the floor that shifted when the leaves did. Branches brushed against the glass, but I heard no noise, not one sound from outside coming through the hard metal walls. I would’ve welcomed some noise to break the quiet. I would’ve welcomed anything to distract me on the night when I might sign my life away for two million dollars.
It felt as if I should do something to prepare myself, but I didn’t know what. Taking a seat at the table, I noticed the cot and washroom in the corner. They hadn’t told me they wanted me to live out here. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. It never turned out well when I took chances.
A buzz sounded from the front door. The lock was scanning someone’s eyes, as it had for the guard when he brought me in. The door opened, and a well-dressed woman in her thirties strode toward me, her heels clicking on the concrete.
“Alistair Briggs?” she said. “I’m Dr. Larson’s assistant, Jean.”
“Yeah, I’m him. I’m Alistair.” The awkward reply seemed to slip from my lips onto the table like an ugly worm, writhing between us. To calm myself, I fiddled with my watch and adjusted the strap. My fingers lingered on the plastic, scuffed from overuse. I wore the watch everywhere. It brought me luck. Back when I had a job, my male colleagues mocked me for wearing such a cheap plastic thing, but I didn’t care what those brutes thought.
Jean sat on a chair across from me and surveyed me with hard, distant eyes. “Thank you for agreeing to move to a secure location,” she said. “Our staff couldn’t tell you the full details of what your work will involve, not at your apartment. The information is too sensitive.”
“I haven’t agreed to sign anything yet.”
“Of course,” Jean said, nodding in the manner of someone who knew she was in total control. “We’re willing to pay a high fee for your help. But you’ll understand shortly why you’re the only person who can do this job.”
I didn’t answer.
“Your task will be to work undercover for us and gather information about the Sixth Cartel, a group of organized criminals. But first, Dr. Larson will need you to do one thing for him.”
“What?”
“He’ll need you to be someone else.”
Jean pulled a flat, touch-screen device from her pocket. As she activated it with a retinal scan, we sat without speaking, the air of the lab hanging stale and stagnant around us. The room felt too hot. But at least it was small and contained.
“You’ll understand what I mean when you see the footage of the suspect,” Jean said. She folded one leg over the other, her neatly manicured
