The Joker's Gambit
Read the storyThe file. Black. Matte cover. No markings. Exactly where I expected it to be. I sit and flip it open as the engines begin to wind up outside. Inside are photographs first. Grainy surveillance stills. A man leaving a warehouse. The same man at a bar. The same man walking down a cracked Detroit sidewalk with a gym bag slung over his shoulder. I turn the page. Name. Age. Affiliations. Routes. Drop locations. Times. Every movement laid out clean and organized. The Jokers run on structure. Chaos is what we remove. The jet lifts off smoothly, Puerto Rico shrinking beneath the wing. I study the file while the city disappears behind us. Page after page. Patterns. He’s predictable. Predictability is weakness. I memorize the routes first. Warehouse to bar. Bar to apartment. Apartment to gym. Same path. Same hours. Every day. He doesn’t think anyone is watching. Most men in his position don’t. They think the violence happening around them belongs to someone else. I close the file halfway through the flight. Not because I’m finished. Because I’ve seen enough. Detroit greets us hours later with gray skies and a wind that bites through the fabric of my jacket when I step off the jet. Home. Not the kind people write songs about. The kind built out of concrete and broken men. The Jokers’ base sits on the other side of the city. But I don’t go there. Not yet. Work comes first. The building on the file sits on the east side. Old industrial strip. Dead streetlights. Empty lots. The kind of place where people learn not to look out their windows. I park two streets away and watch the warehouse. Lights on. Music leaking faintly through the metal walls. Back door propped open. He’s here. Good. I sit there a moment longer, replaying the routes in my head. Patterns. Timing. Positioning. Then I step out of the car and start walking toward the building. Time to see if the file got anything wrong.