Espresso and Exit Strategies

Marcus didn’t move. He couldn’t. His boots felt like they had been professionally nailed to the floorboards. Beside him, Leo was making a sound like a tea kettle reaching its breaking point—a high-pitched, steady whistle of pure, unadulterated terror. The man in the tub didn't move either. He just sat there, slumped against the porcelain, his head tilted at an angle that suggested a very expensive chiropractor was going to be needed if he ever woke up. The "blood" that Marcus had seen seeping under the door was thick, dark, and smelled surprisingly like... dark roast Arabica? Marcus took a cautious step forward, his nose wrinkling. He leaned over the edge of the tub, squinting through the dim green light of the office. The charcoal-gray suit was indeed soaked, but not in gore. "Leo," Marcus whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't think he's dead." "Of course he’s dead!" Leo hissed, clutching the golden retriever’s collar so hard the dog gave a confused huff. "The note says 'Rejected,' Marcus! You don't 'reject' a living person unless you’re a cruel casting director or a girl I asked to prom in 2009! That man is an ex-person!" Marcus reached out a trembling finger and poked the man’s shoulder. The body rocked slightly. Then, a low, rumbling snore erupted from the man’s nostrils, followed by a wet, bubbly sigh. Leo’s whistle-noise stopped abruptly. "Is he... is he dreaming?" "He's drugged," Marcus said, the adrenaline beginning to recede, replaced by a frantic, buzzing confusion. He dipped a finger into the liquid pooling at the bottom of the tub and sniffed it. "And he's covered in triple-shot espresso. Like, a lot of it. It’s a bathtub full of caffeine, Leo." "A coffee-boarding," Leo breathed, stepping closer, his eyes wide. "That’s cold. That’s calculated. That’s... actually a really expensive way to intimidate someone. Do you know how much a gallon of high-end espresso costs?" "Focus!" Marcus snapped, though his own brain was struggling to process the absurdity. He looked at the note pinned to the man’s chest. The word *REJECTED* was written in elegant, calligraphic script on a piece of heavy cream cardstock. It looked like an invitation to a gala Marcus would never be invited to. "The woman on the phone," Marcus said, turning back to the main room. "She said this guy was our 'predecessor.' This is the real Sebastian. The guy from your ID. He failed at whatever job they were supposed to do, and now he’s... he’s the world’s most energetic vegetable." The burner phone on the table chirped. A text message. Marcus scooped it up. *Thirty seconds until the ventilation system cycles. I’d suggest holding your breath. Open the case.* "Hold our breath?" Leo yelped. "Why? Is there gas? Is she going to gas us? I have very sensitive lungs, Marcus! I had mild croup as a child!" "The case, Leo! Get the case!" Marcus lunged for the silver briefcase on the table. It was heavy, cold, and lacked any visible buttons or keyholes. It was a smooth slab of brushed aluminum that looked more like a prop from a sci-fi movie than a piece of luggage. "How do we open it?" Leo scrambled over, the golden retriever trotting happily behind him, seemingly the only member of the party enjoying the evening. "There’s no latch! Is it voice-activated? Open sesame! Password! 1-2-3-4-5!" "It’s not a luggage lock from the nineties, Leo!" Marcus growled. He flipped the case over. On the bottom was a small, recessed glass panel. A fingerprint scanner. Suddenly, a soft *hiss* filled the room. A faint, sweet-smelling mist began to pour from the ceiling vents. "The gas!" Leo screamed, immediately clamping his hands over his mouth and nose, turning a bright shade of magenta. Marcus looked back toward the bathroom. "The finger! We need Sebastian’s finger!" "I’m not touching the coffee-man!" Leo muffled through his palms. "Do you want to sleep in the espresso tub too?" Marcus yelled, his own lungs beginning to burn as he tried to hold his breath. He didn't wait for an answer. Marcus sprinted back into the bathroom, grabbed the unconscious Sebastian’s right hand—which was unpleasantly sticky—and hauled the man’s arm toward the doorway. Sebastian was surprisingly heavy, his limp body sliding against the porcelain with a sound like a wet boot. "Help! Me!" Marcus wheezed. Leo, seeing the mist thickening into a white shroud near the ceiling, sprinted over. Together, they dragged the real Sebastian’s arm out of the bathroom like they were participating in the world’s most morbid relay race. Marcus slammed the man’s thumb onto the glass panel of the briefcase. A soft *beep* echoed through the room. The briefcase didn't open. A red light flashed on the scanner. *Incorrect biometric signature. Attempt 1 of 3.* "It's not the thumb!" Marcus gasped, his vision starting to swim. He was a pack-a-day smoker; his lung capacity was roughly that of a punctured balloon. "Try the index finger!" *Beep. Red light.* "The pinky? Maybe he's a fancy villain?" Leo suggested, his voice sounding thin as he struggled not to inhale. Marcus grabbed the man’s middle finger—which felt appropriate given the circumstances—and pressed it hard against the glass. *Click.* The lid of the briefcase popped open an inch. At the same moment, the golden retriever, apparently bored with the human drama, let out a massive sneeze and bumped into the table. The briefcase slid, Marcus lunged for it, and the three of them—Marcus, Leo, and a very caffeinated, unconscious mercenary—tumbled into a heap on the floor as the white mist settled over them like a heavy blanket. *** Marcus woke up to the sensation of a very wet, very sandpaper-like tongue licking his forehead. "Ugh... stop. Leo, I told you, no more tequila," Marcus groaned, pushing the tongue away. "I'm over here, Marcus. And I'm currently mourning our dignity." Marcus opened his eyes. He was lying on a plush, Persian rug. The green light was gone, replaced by the soft, amber glow of a streetlamp filtering through a high window. The white gas had cleared, leaving behind a faint scent of lavender and bleach. He sat up, his head throbbing. They were still in the office. Leo was sitting against the wall, cradling the silver briefcase like a newborn baby. The golden retriever was sitting between them, looking incredibly proud of itself. The bathroom door was closed. "Where’s... where’s the coffee guy?" Marcus asked, rubbing his temples. "Gone," Leo said, his voice hollow. "While we were out, someone came in, took Sebastian, cleaned the tub, and left us a gift." Leo pointed to the center of the room. There, neatly folded on a chair, were two high-end, tailored suits—one navy, one charcoal. On top of the suits sat two pairs of Italian leather shoes and a small, gold-foiled box of chocolates. "They changed our clothes?" Marcus looked down. He was still in his grease-stained cargo pants and 'World's Okayest Brother' t-shirt. "Wait, they *didn't* change us. They just... provided options?" "It’s a uniform, Marcus," Leo said, standing up shakily. He opened the briefcase. "And I think I know why. Look." Marcus leaned in. Inside the briefcase wasn't a key. It wasn't a flash drive or a bag of money. It was a single, translucent glass invitation card. *THE MAYOR’S MASQUERADE CONSORTIUM* *Midnight. The Oakhaven Observatory.* *Bring the Offering.* "The offering?" Marcus whispered. He looked at the bag they had brought from the Mayor’s house—the one filled with the "furniture" jewelry. "We’re not just burglars anymore, Leo," Marcus said, the weight of the situation finally sinking in. "We’re delivery drivers for a shadow organization. This woman, whoever she is, she’s using us to infiltrate the Mayor’s inner circle. That safe we emptied? That wasn't the 'real' safe. That was the 'offering' for this party." "We can't go to a Masquerade, Marcus! I can’t dance! I have the rhythm of a washing machine full of bricks!" Leo began to pace, his hands flying wildly. "And we have a dog! You can’t bring a golden retriever to a secret society meeting! It’s against the bylaws! I’m sure there are bylaws!" "We don't have a choice," Marcus said, standing up and grabbing the navy suit. "She has our names. She knows where we live. If we don't show up at that observatory with the jewelry, we’re the ones who end up in the espresso tub. Or worse." "What could be worse than the espresso tub?" "The 'Rejected' part, Leo. I don't think they just give you a bad Yelp review." Marcus started stripping off his shirt, his movements frantic. "Put on the suit, Leo. We’re going to a party." "But the dog!" Leo gestured to the retriever, who was currently trying to eat one of the Italian leather shoes. "What do we do with Barnaby?" "Barnaby?" "He looks like a Barnaby. Look at those jowls. That’s a Barnaby." "Fine. Barnaby stays in the car. We’ll crack a window." "In this neighborhood? He’ll be kidnapped! Or he’ll kidnap someone! He’s very charismatic!" "Leo! Suit! Now!" Ten minutes later, the transformation was complete. They looked, from a distance and if you squinted, like two young professionals on their way to a high-stakes corporate merger. Up close, Marcus looked like a man who was about to vomit, and Leo’s tie was crooked in a way that defied the laws of physics. They gathered their gear—the jewelry bag, the silver briefcase, and the dog—and approached the office door. To their surprise, it was unlocked. The hallway outside was silent. The building, which they now realized was a converted warehouse on the edge of the docks, felt abandoned. As they hurried toward the exit, Marcus’s burner phone buzzed again. *A car is waiting downstairs. Don't be late. The Mayor hates tardiness. It makes him... impulsive.* They burst through the heavy steel doors at the street level and skidded to a halt. Waiting at the curb was a pristine, black 1960s Lincoln Continental. The engine was idling with a low, predatory growl. The driver’s side window rolled down, revealing a man with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and sunglasses worn at two in the morning. "Arthur. Sebastian," the driver said, his voice a gravelly monotone. "Get in. We’re behind schedule." "Uh, hi," Leo said, shuffling forward. "Is there a... car seat for the dog? Or maybe a doggy-divider? He gets car sick if he's not facing forward." The driver stared at them for a long beat. Then, he looked at Barnaby. Barnaby wagged his tail, hitting the side of the car with a rhythmic *thwack-thwack-thwack*. "The dog is the 'extra' baggage Gable mentioned?" the driver asked. "He's an emotional support... thief," Marcus improvised. "Very important for the mission. Highly trained." At that exact moment, Barnaby decided to sit down and begin an intensive, leg-behind-the-ear scratching session, his collar jingling loudly. The driver sighed—a sound of deep, existential weariness. "Just get in. And if he sheds on the leather, I’m billing your estate for the detailing." They scrambled into the back seat. The interior of the Lincoln smelled of expensive tobacco and old secrets. As the car pulled away from the curb, Marcus looked out the back window. A second car, a nondescript gray sedan, pulled out from an alleyway and began to follow them. "Leo," Marcus whispered, leaning over. "Don't look now, but I think we’re being followed." "By the police?" Leo squeaked. "No," Marcus said, watching as the gray sedan swerved slightly. "I think it’s the guys we stole the jewelry from. The ones from the moving gig." "You mean the mob?" Leo’s voice went up an octave. "We have the shadow lady in front of us, the mob behind us, and a dog who needs a bathroom break between us? This isn't a heist, Marcus. This is a disaster movie where the protagonists are idiots!" "We aren't idiots," Marcus said, trying to find his resolve as he gripped the silver briefcase. "We’re... versatile." The Lincoln sped up, weaving through the deserted streets of Oakhaven toward the hills where the observatory sat like a silver dome against the starry sky. The gray sedan kept pace, its headlights glaring in the rearview mirror like the eyes of a predator. "Hey, Mr. Driver?" Leo called out, leaning toward the front. "Do you have any snacks? Barnaby gets low blood sugar when he’s being pursued by organized crime." The driver didn't respond. Instead, he reached over and pressed a button on the dashboard. A partition slid up, sealing them in the back of the car. "Well," Leo said, sinking back into the seat. "That’s rude." "Leo, look at the briefcase," Marcus said suddenly. While they had been talking, a small digital display had activated on the side of the aluminum case. It was a timer. *00:14:59* *00:14:58* *00:14:57* "Is that... is that a countdown?" Leo asked, his face paling. "I don't think it’s a timer for the chocolates," Marcus said. The car took a sharp turn, tires screeching, as they began the steep climb up the mountain. Behind them, the gray sedan lurched forward, gaining ground. Marcus looked at the briefcase, then at the dog, then at the city lights disappearing below them. He had wanted a more exciting life, a way to pay the rent that didn't involve assembling IKEA furniture for people who didn't say thank you. He was starting to think the IKEA furniture wasn't so bad. "Marcus," Leo said, pointing at the briefcase as the numbers ticked down. "What happens when it hits zero?" "I don't know," Marcus said, his hand finding the door handle. It was locked. "But I have a feeling we’re not going to like the 'Offering' part of this evening." Just as they reached the gates of the observatory, the driver’s voice came through a small speaker in the ceiling. "Gentlemen, we’ve arrived. Just a reminder: once you enter the Masquerade, there is no exiting until the Mayor is satisfied. Good luck. You’ll need it." The gates swung open. The Lincoln rolled toward the grand entrance, where dozens of figures in tuxedos and ornate, terrifying animal masks stood waiting. And in the center of the crowd, wearing a golden lion mask and holding a glass of champagne, was a man who looked exactly like the Mayor—except for the massive, jagged scar running down the side of his neck that hadn't been in any of the campaign posters. "Leo," Marcus whispered, clutching the jewelry bag. "I don't think that’s the Mayor." "Then who is it?" The briefcase chimed. *00:00:10* "I think," Marcus said, "we’re about to find out."