“Curious.”
The wind kicked up off the park, and he pulled his collar tighter. I watched his eyes go back to the path the way they always did, three steps ahead, reading what was coming.
“The ten a.m.,” I said. “I need the location.”
He didn’t answer right away. I stopped walking. He stopped a second later, exhaled, and turned back.
“You’re going to hate it.”
“Probably.”
“Source doesn’t want exposure,” he said. “We meet in public. Blend in. No sudden moves.”
“That’s not how protection works.”
“That’s how access works.”
“Wiley,” I said. “If I lose you, I don’t care how good the story was. So tell me what you need to do, and I’ll tell you how we do it. Don’t pitch me on access like I’m one of your editors.”
He looked at me a beat longer.
“Fair,” he said.
“Location?”
He pulled his phone, tapped once, and showed me the address. It was a coffee shop on a corner lot with a glass front.
I thought about what I remembered: entry points, sightlines, choke points, and exit routes. It had two public doors: the front one on the corner and the side one on the alley. The counter wasto the left when you walked in. There was a short hallway in the back to the bathrooms.
“Fine,” I said, “but I’m adjusting your seating. I take the corner, my back to the wall, with sightlines to the door and the side exit. You sit opposite me, where I can see past you.
“Naturally.”
“And if something feels off—“
“You’ll tell me,” he cut in.
“I’ll move you.”
“That’s not what I—“
“That’s how this works.” I didn’t raise my voice.
He stared at me. “Fine.”
He started walking again, and I matched his pace. He was shorter than I was, but he walked fast. It was the East Coast walk, the one tourists never figured out.
“Do you read my stuff?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Which piece?”
“All of it.”
“That’s either flattering or alarming.”
“Both. Don’t forget, you’re my job.”