Chapter 22 : Inside Man
The mysterious phone number haunted me for two days before I accepted that tracing it would take more time than I had. Sometimes the elegant solution wasn't available, and you had to fall back on something messier.
Something like getting a member of Vera's crew drunk and making him talk.
"GHOST, pull up personnel files. I need the weakest link in the organization."
"Analyzing. Based on accumulated intelligence, optimal target is Thomas 'Tommy' Reyes, age 23, newest member of Vera's crew. Employment history suggests limited criminal experience prior to joining. Social media presence indicates low operational security awareness. Pattern analysis shows regular attendance at Micky's Bar, Thursday through Saturday, typically alone."
Tommy. The new kid who hadn't learned yet that keeping his mouth shut was how you stayed alive in this business.
"What's his role in the organization?"
"Low-level distribution. Primarily responsible for customer-facing transactions in the northern sector of Vera's territory. Limited access to operational details but likely exposure to hierarchy structure and general security protocols."
Good enough. I didn't need him to know everything—just enough to fill in the gaps in my intelligence picture.
"What's my approach?"
"Recommend casual contact during social drinking. Cover identity: 'Mike,' recently relocated professional experiencing personal stress, seeking recreational substances for personal use. Non-threatening, non-competitive positioning. Goal: establish rapport through shared complaints about urban life, allow target to volunteer information through boasting."
I spent the rest of the afternoon building "Mike" in my head. His job (pharmaceutical sales—ironic), his reason for being in the area (recently transferred from Chicago), his problems (divorce, stress, looking for ways to unwind). The details needed to feel lived-in, automatic, the kind of thing that came out naturally in bar conversation.
The key was making Tommy feel like the expert, the guy who knew things, the person whose advice was valuable. People talked when they felt respected.
Micky's Bar was the kind of place that existed in every city—dim lighting, sticky floors, a jukebox that hadn't been updated since the '90s, and regulars who eyed strangers with automatic suspicion. I walked in at 9:30 PM, ordered a beer I didn't intend to finish, and found a seat at the bar with a clear view of the door.
Tommy arrived at 10:15, alone as predicted. Young, nervous energy barely contained, the kind of guy who wanted everyone to know he was somebody but couldn't quite figure out how to project it. He took a seat three stools down from me and ordered a whiskey.
I gave it twenty minutes. Let him settle in, let the first drink loosen the tension in his shoulders. Then I moved.
"Mind if I sit here?" I gestured to the stool next to him. "Gets lonely drinking by yourself."
He looked me over—assessing threat level, deciding if I was worth the energy. I was dressed down, deliberately unremarkable: khakis, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, the slightly rumpled look of someone who'd had a long day.
"Free country," he said finally.
"Mike." I offered my hand. He shook it after a moment's hesitation.
"Tommy."
"You from around here, Tommy? I just moved in a few weeks ago. Still trying to figure out the neighborhood."
And just like that, we were talking.
The first hour was groundwork. I complained about my nonexistent ex-wife, my stressful job, the misery of apartment hunting in New York. Tommy commiserated, offered tips on cheap places to eat, warned me about the landlords who'd screw you if you let them.
By the third round—which I was buying—he'd relaxed enough to start showing off.
"Place like this, you gotta know people," he said, the whiskey giving his words a loose, expansive quality. "Know what I mean? Can't just walk around like a tourist. Gotta have connections."
"Yeah?" I kept my voice casual, interested but not too interested. "You got connections?"
"I work for some people." He straightened up a little, proud. "Important people. Run a whole operation around here. Professional, you know? Not like those street corner guys."
"Sounds intense. That kind of work."
"It is. Boss is paranoid as hell, though. Always worried about cops, about rats, about people looking where they shouldn't." He shook his head. "Every week it's something new. Check this guy out, watch that corner, make sure nobody's asking questions."
[+15 XP — Intelligence gathering: organizational psychology confirmed]
Paranoid. That matched what I'd observed—the rotating schedules, the counter-surveillance, the reluctance to use phones for anything sensitive. Vera wasn't just careful; he was actively afraid of being caught.
"Cops really that much of a problem?" I asked, signaling the bartender for another round.
"Not yet. But the boss thinks they're always watching. And the competition—Jesus. Every week somebody's trying to muscle in. We had this thing last month where—" He caught himself, glanced at me sideways. "Anyway. It's complicated."
I filed that away. Competition. Pressure from rivals. Another potential lever.
"Sounds like you need to unwind as much as I do," I said, steering back to safer ground. "What do you do for stress? I've been looking for... you know. Something to take the edge off."
His eyes sharpened slightly. "What kind of something?"
"Nothing heavy. Just—recreational. Someone told me if I needed anything in this neighborhood, people here could help."
The transformation was subtle but clear. Tommy went from drinking buddy to businessman in the space of a breath. "I might know some people. What are you looking for specifically?"
We spent the next ten minutes doing a dance I'd rehearsed in my head—me playing the naive customer, him playing the connected insider. He didn't mention names or specifics, but the way he talked painted a picture: a tiered organization, different people handling different products, specialization in various areas.
And then I pushed too hard.
"A guy I work with mentioned something about prescriptions," I said, keeping my voice low. "Said there was someone—a girl—who could get basically anything. Oxy, Adderall, whatever. You know anything about that?"
Tommy's expression changed. The warmth drained out of it, replaced by something harder, more suspicious.
"Who told you about that?"
My heart rate spiked, but I kept my face neutral. "Just a rumor. Guy at work said he heard it somewhere. I didn't believe him, but since we're talking—"
"What guy?"
"Just some—look, forget I said anything." I held up my hands in surrender. "I was just asking. If it's not your thing, no problem."
Tommy studied me for a long moment. I could see the calculation happening behind his eyes: was I a cop? A rival? Just a guy who'd heard a rumor?
"The prescriptions thing isn't something we talk about," he said finally. "That's specialized. And if someone's talking about it outside, that's a problem."
"Hey, I get it. No worries. Like I said, just a rumor." I drained the rest of my beer and stood up. "I should probably head out anyway. Early morning tomorrow."
"Yeah." His voice was flat now, the friendly drunk persona gone. "Take care of yourself, Mike."
The way he said my cover name made it clear he was filing it away. Maybe for later. Maybe to mention to someone.
Time to leave.
The bathroom was empty when I ducked in, ostensibly to use the facilities before my walk home. I locked the door and stared at myself in the cracked mirror.
My hands were shaking.
I'd pushed too hard. Asked about Shayla's specific role when I should have stayed general. Tommy might not be sure what to think, but he was suspicious now, and suspicious people talked to their bosses.
"Mike needs to die tonight."
The identity was burned. I couldn't use it again, couldn't come back to this bar, couldn't risk any connection between the curious stranger and Marcus Cole. Whatever value the social engineering had provided, it came at a cost.
I splashed water on my face, watching the droplets run down cheeks that still didn't quite feel like mine. Seventy-something days in this body, and some part of me still expected to see someone else in the mirror.
"GHOST, assessment."
"Social engineering partially successful. Confirmed: organizational paranoia, hierarchical structure, competitive pressure from rivals. However, target displayed suspicion regarding prescription inquiry. Probability of report to superiors: estimated 40-60% depending on Tommy's relationship with immediate hierarchy."
Forty to sixty percent. A coin flip on whether I'd just accelerated my own timeline in the worst possible way.
I dried my hands, unlocked the door, and walked out of the bar without looking at Tommy. The night air was cold, and I took the long way home, checking for tails at every corner.
None visible. But invisible threats were the dangerous kind.
I had maybe a few days before Tommy's alcohol-fuzzy memory crystallized into a report. The clock had just gotten faster.
[Social Engineering Lv.2 → Lv.3. Pattern recognition improved.]
The notification felt hollow. Progress that might not matter if Vera heard about "Mike" before I was ready to move.
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