“That’s your training equipment arriving.”
“Sorry?”
“Just wait until you go upstairs.”
* * *
Even though I’m curious, I don’t cheat my workout. It takes patience and effort to look this good and stay this fit. At thirty-six, I can’t afford to let my body slide.
Not until after I shower and dress do I step into the elevator for a ride to the sixth floor. That’s where our offices are—Max’s, Carl’s, and mine, although I rarely use it. There’s also a conference room and a kitchen. But the vast majority of the big space is given over to a our open-plan proofing ground, where we build and test new tools and gadgets.
When the elevator doors part, I see the usual work table. But it’s not covered with laser devices or spy gear. Instead, I see a bright red Italian espresso machine. The same model that Posy has in her pie shop. “What the …?”
Max paces toward me, hands in his pockets, face grim. “You’ve got twenty-two hours to nail this mission, Gunn. You can do this.”
“Dude. There’s got to be another way. How about I take up a position on the roof across the street—”
Max cuts me off with a slice of his hand through the air. Then he points at a guy wearing a plaid shirt and a beanie. The man is standing with his hands in a prayer position, and his eyes are closed. “Meet your trainer. He just flew in from Portland.”
“Portland … Maine?”
“Portland, Oregon,” Max corrects. “Hipster capital of the world. Rico won the 2018 Barista World Championship. Rico, your trainee is here.”
The man opens his eyes. “Moment. I’m meditating.” His eyes flutter closed, but he speaks anyway. “Coffee is a life force. I’m tapping into the soul of my dark master.”
“Oh brother.” I hope Max isn’t paying this guy too much.
“We’re on a deadline, my man,” Max says. “You’ve got twelve hours to turn this guy into a world class barista.”
His eyes fly open again and he drops his hands. “I’m just fucking with you. People have weird ideas about Portland.” He lifts a hand to the beanie and whips it off, revealing a buzz cut tight enough for the Marine Corps. “Okay. Let’s pull some motherfucking shots.”
“You’ll do nicely,” Max says. “Rico, this is Gunnar. He’s smart, and he’s good with his hands. He can build an explosive device out of household cleaners and ten dollars’ worth of hardware store items. He can hack into your phone, your car, and your bank accounts. But none of that matters now. Only the coffee. It’s life or death.”
“That’s laying it on a little thick,” I grumble.
“Coffee is life or death,” Rico says. “So get over here and let me see you pull your first shot.”
“One moment.” I drag Max aside, whether he likes it or not. “How much is this costing us?”
Max shrugs. “Just a charter flight, the machine rental, a hotel room, and his fee for one day. It could be worse.”
That’s easily fifteen grand. The flight alone could be ten. “You must really want to get to the bottom of this mystery that nobody has asked you to solve.”
“So what if I do?” He crosses his arms. “Your annual profit-sharing bonus is not in any danger, Gunn. It’s not like you to give me a hard time about this. This Posy chick must be a real ball-buster. Who knew Gunnar was afraid of a pastry chef?”
I growl, because Posy has got nothing to do with it.
Okay, she has a little to do with it. But still. “Max, this is borderline psycho. This hacker you’re chasing might not lead you where you think he will. Meanwhile, we have paying clients we could be servicing.”
“My gut says the murders are part of something big,” he says quietly. “And if I’m right, many of our clients are in danger. As is the entire information economy.”
This shuts me up for a moment, because security work has its own breed of logic. It’s the only job in which you hope that everything you do is unnecessary.
Although it often isn’t, because the world is a scary place. And hunches are not to be ignored. Especially Max’s.
“Fine,” I grunt, shooting a glance toward the drill sergeant who’s going to teach me to be a barista. “But my next assignment better be something where I get to hack into something or shoot at something.”
Max snorts. “You’re looking at this the wrong way, Gunn. Think of the look on Posy’s face tomorrow when you walk in there and make cup after cup of award-worthy espresso. When she realizes she won’t have the satisfaction of firing you.”
“Hmm,” I say, because the idea does have a certain amount of appeal. “Okay. But you still owe me.”
“I know it.” He gives me a little push toward the coffee machine.
“Let’s go, recruit!” the trainer says, rubbing his hands together. “Jump right in and make your first shot.”
“Sure,” I say, holding in a sigh, rounding the bar to flip the switch on the grinder. I count to three Mississippis and turn it off, just like Posy does. Then I measure out the first shot of coffee grounds and carry on.
It’s all going fine until I’m about to put the tamped-down shot into Lola’s twin.
“Whoa, recruit!” Rico barks. “Dude. Always clean off the edge of the portafilter before you load that shot. No excuses. You’re not respecting your beans!”
“Huh? Clean the what?”
“Port. A. Filter,” he enunciates. “That wand in your hand has a name. Don’t you have an espresso machine at home? Don’t tell me you drink coffee from pods.” He shudders.
“I don’t drink coffee at all.”
Rico blinks. And then he blinks again. “Why?”
“Not a fan,” I say.
“Fuck me.” He throws his hands up. “I don’t think I can work under these conditions.”
“Listen. I will not have tea drinkers shamed in this office. And just think of your fee, man. You’ll be able to afford a lot of fresh ink.” The man has more tattoos than New York has hipsters.
He lets out a sigh. “You’re right. It’s fine. I’ll just have to assume a different base of knowledge.”
“Exactly. Talk to me like I’m a fifteen-year-old coffee virgin.”
“Fine. Let’s start over. This is a portafilter.” He points at it. “I want you to treat it like you treat your dick—keep it clean and ready for action. Every shot will be pure bliss, if you always wipe the edge before you insert it in the machine.”
“Uh, sure.” Although I think he took that analogy a little too far.
“Now drop and give me ten push-ups.”
“What? I just came from the gym.”
He gives me a menacing look. “Fuck if I care. Drop to the floor, recruit. You’ll learn. Every mistake requires a punishment.”
I hit the deck and bang out ten push-ups. And plot new ways to murder Max. Possibly with a portafilter.
* * *
“Speed ball.”
“It’s …” I know this one. “A cup of regular coffee with a shot of espresso in it.”
“Caffe Freddo.”
“That’s … an iced espresso.”
“Wet.”
“Uh …” Damn it. “It’s how the ladies feel when they meet me.”
Rico shakes his head. “Wet means more milk than foam. Drop and give me ten.”
I drop to the floor again and bang out another ten push-ups. My arms are quaking because I’ve done hundreds already.
On the upside, I know a lot about coffee now. And chicks dig big guns, so …
“Is he ready for the big time yet?”
When I stand up, Max is pacing in front of the impromptu coffee bar. “I’m getting there,” I tell my impatient partner. “I’ve already made enough espresso to fuel lower Manhattan.”
“You’re ready for a test, then,” Max says.
“He totally is,” Rico agrees. “Bring on the hordes.”
“The … who?”
Max pulls his Katt Phone out of his pocket and taps the screen. “Attention Co
mpany staff.” His voice booms from the loudspeakers mounted on the walls, here and on every other floor. “I’ve just unlocked the sixth floor to all employees, because we have a special treat for you today. Gunnar Scott wants to show you how excited he is to be back in New York. While supplies last, he’ll be pouring specialty coffee drinks for any employee. Come on upstairs and order your favorite. No order is too weird or too complicated!”
Rico snickers.
“Oh my fucking God,” I groan. “I was gonna grab a sandwich!” Even as the words leave my mouth, I can see five of my colleagues hustling toward the espresso machine, each hoping to be first in line. “Fuck.”
The stairwell door flies open, and eight more people rush towards me.
The first person in line is Shelby, Carl Bayer’s executive assistant. “Gunnar, can you really make me a skinny mocha with an extra shot?”
“Of course I can,” I promise, grabbing the portafilter and wiping it out carefully so that the drill sergeant of espresso doesn’t make me do push-ups in front of my peers. I hit the grinder button, shutting it off at the right time without even counting to three Mississippis.
I never wanted to make coffee. But fuck me, I’m good at it now.
“Gunnar! Can I have a tall latte?” The next person in line is Carl Bayer, Max’s father. He runs the personal security side of the business.
“Yessir. And I can make a poodle’s face in the goddamn foam.” That’s another thing Rico taught me. Let the design flow from your wrist, Gunnar. Tap! Flick! Get that jug closer to the cup!
“A poodle?” Carl barks. “Make mine a pit bull.”
“Yessir.”
Meanwhile, the world is burning down. There’s a murderer on the loose. Yet here I stand, learning to make pictures with foamy milk.
My stomach growls as I grind yet another shot. And when I look up, the line of Company employees waiting for coffee is so long that it snakes across the giant space, curling around past Max’s office door like a cat’s tail. I’m going to be here until Christmas.
“Don’t be shy!” Max tells the crowd. “Ask him for anything you can think of.”
My growl is drowned out by the sound of the espresso machine. There’s only one thing I’ve got going for me right now. A single bright spot on my dark horizon. And that’s the look I’ll see on Posy’s face tomorrow when I start my shift making perfect espresso drinks for her customers.
I’m going to flirt my ass off, too. With the women and the men. She hates it when I do that.
I snicker to myself as I clean off the frothing arm with a well-practiced flourish, and hand over another perfect coffee.
“Next!” I bellow, and the crowd cheers.
7
Gunnar
“Here you go,” I say to the woman at the counter. “A grande, single shot, two pumps caramel, one pump cherry, nonfat extra-hot latte.”
“Thank you.” The woman looks down at her cup, then looks back up at me with hearts in her eyes. “What a beautiful tulip! I don’t know if I can stand to drink it.”
“Aw, shucks. Your lovely blouse reminds me of tulips.” And after that ridiculous order? She’d better drink it. I might have to jump over the counter and pour it down her throat. “Enjoy it. Have a great day.” I say this loudly for Posy’s benefit. I can feel her hovering near the kitchen doorway, just waiting for me to fuck up.
Good luck, sweetheart. You’re looking at a guy who just made about fifty complicated espresso drinks without wrecking any of them.
And Posy can’t stand it. Ever since our very first customer this morning—I made some dude a perfect non-fat cappuccino with a peacock design in the foam, and complimented his eyebrow piercing—she’s been watching me with a mixture of amazement, annoyance, and lust.
Okay, that last thing is probably my imagination. But she’s practically vibrating with irritation. She was expecting to fire me, I think. But now she can’t.
Hell, it’s just like old times. After her dad put us in competition, I used to send her all the trickiest drink orders. Oh, you want a Rum Martinez? A kiwi daiquiri? That little lady down the bar will help you. Then I’d watch her covertly look it up. She used to carry around that old mixology book and consult it when she thought I wasn’t looking. Like a cheater who holds his crib sheet under the desk.
You have to get your kicks where you can. And I’d forgotten how much fun it is to challenge Posy. On slow nights, I’d quiz her mercilessly. There was nothing better than watching those devastating cheekbones flush with victory whenever she solved another problem.
I wanted to kiss that look of victory right off her face.
But I was just a dumb kid, spending the whole summer trying to impress a pretty rich girl and her asshole father. Even though the results were fixed from the start.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t win either the girl or the manager’s job. I never stood a chance.
Two young women enter the shop and approach the counter. I sell them slices of pie and cups of tea. “Just tea?” I ask in artificial outrage. “Where’s the challenge in that?”
They smile and bat their long eyelashes. One of them drops a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar.
“Thank you so much,” I say, eyeing the tips in that jar. Honestly, I can’t even remember how it felt to live off tips. But people do it all the time. I used to be one of them. I don’t need the money anymore, though. My stake in The Company is worth over a hundred million dollars.
Meanwhile, I can’t forget my true purpose here. Between customers, I slowly wipe the entire width of the coffee counter. Not only does it make me look like a perfect kiss-ass, but it allows the camera pen sticking out of my pocket to get a good look at everyone in the restaurant.
Each time the camera picks up a new customer, the guys in the control room will try—in real time—to match the face with every known facial recognition database.
One particular customer has already piqued my attention. There’s an older guy who’s been holding court in the corner by the window for two hours already. I can’t see his screen, though. It’s facing the exposed brick wall on the opposite side of the room.
Meanwhile, he’s had two different visitors already, each one taking a seat in front of him for forty minutes at a time. It’s like he thinks this place is his office, and that table is his private conference room. At least everyone bought drinks. And one of the guys purchased a thick slice of Chai Swirl Pumpkin pie.
Every slice of pie I cut looks more glorious than the last. Posy might be an irritating trust fund kid with a bossy streak a mile wide, but she bakes a hell of a pie. Each one is a work of art, too. I didn’t know you could braid a crust or cut pastry to look like lace. Posy’s obsession with detail has finally found its natural outlet.
I’d buy a pie for the guys in the control room, but a whole one costs forty bucks. That’s too pricey for an hourly employee to afford, and I can’t blow my cover.
“Look, I just don’t get it,” Posy says suddenly as I scrutinize the customers. When I turn, she’s propped against the doorway. She’s removed her apron, which means I’ve got a great view of her curves in the tight top she’s wearing. “Why did you screw up the coffee so badly the other day if you actually knew what you were doing?”
“I told you I was rusty,” I say mildly. “Spent some time at the University of YouTube this weekend, remembering how to do coffee right.”
Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t believe me.
Got to give the girl some credit for that, I guess. Her suspicions are very well founded. “You just don’t want to see me succeed. You never did back in the day.”
She pushes off the wall and stalks forward. “That is not true. I always said you were the better bartender. But I was hell bent on being the better bar manager. Not that it mattered.”
“Not that it mattered,” I echo, cackling. “Notice that you’re still not ready to let it go.”
“You brought it up.” She folds her arms, which only emphasizes her breasts. Posy is
stacked, and I have eyes and a functioning libido. I’m not really ogling my boss. Not much anyway.
I’m ready to up the ante on our argument when Posy abruptly turns around and disappears into the kitchen.
A moment later I realize why. That same hottie from the other day—the one who wanted a decaf latte—is back again.
Posy doesn’t like this woman, and now I’m curious why. “Hello there,” I greet her. “Can I make you a decaf sugar free peppermint latte, half two percent half skim, iced, no foam?”
Her eyes light up like sparklers. “You remembered! I would love one. So long as it’s decaf. I can’t have regular coffee. It would be bad for the baby.”
“Congratulations, and I won’t forget,” I promise, giving her a cheesy wink. And when I turn around to grind a shot of decaf—which is relegated to Siberia on the wall behind me—I catch a glimpse of Posy out of my peripheral vision. She’s in the kitchen, pressed against the wall just out of sight of the counter. Her eyes are closed, and she’s braced herself against the wall, as if she needs it for support.
Hmm. That’s interesting.
I make this woman’s complicated coffee beverage practically on autopilot. I’m really that good at this now. And just as I’m ringing her up, a guy in starched khaki pants and a white linen shirt strides in on shiny penny loafers. “Saroya,” he says, approaching the counter. “What’s taking so long?”
And I’ve seen this guy before. His face is familiar, and I’m searching my brain for a reason. His look could best be described as preppy newscaster. But I don’t think he’s actually a face from TV.
“I’ll just be another moment,” his wife says. “Don’t you want a latte, too? I was hoping to share our big news with Posy.”
At that, the man’s eyes dart toward the kitchen door. “I don’t see her. Maybe another time?”
His guilty look is the thing that jogs my memory. “Actually, Posy isn’t here at the moment,” I say to this man who used to sit at the bar just to flirt with her. What was his name—Skippy? Spiffy? I remember it was something pretentious. “She had an appointment in Midtown,” I add, because the look on Posy’s face a minute ago tells me that she wishes she really were several miles away.
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