Displaced - Book One of the Alternate Reality Series

Prologue

Seated at the bar, drink in hand, Mike couldn't believe he might actually have to use his pistol.

The firearm sat inside his jacket holster, and he never envisioned waking the weapon, let alone discharging its screams. However, the current situation brought the pistol's usage into the realm of possibility, and possibly within the next few minutes.

Mike sipped his drink, one he couldn't even taste, and reassessed the situation. Did the situation warrant drawing his weapon? He didn't know, but deciding required careful consideration, as gunfire would forever undo his covert status.

His eyes canted leftward, and cautiously eyed the couple of interest–both young, probably in their mid-20s, adding buoyant cheerfulness to the Irish pub's upbeat hum. Mike had secretly followed them over the past week, his nickel-plated companion weighing against his side all the while, and him wondering why he bothered lugging around the heavy steel. Today, the decision's logic came to the fore.

Mike shifted his gaze back towards the bar's grimy window. He stared past the dingy bottles and used the window's greasy reflection to observe the complication–a man seated fifteen feet behind him, similarly dressed in a dark suit, displaying an obvious interest in his targets. What's more, the man paid particular attention to the couple's male participant. Coincidence? Impossible.

Nobody could share his goal. Mike's privileged access to the man uncovered his offense, which is what prompted the weeklong surveillance effort in the first place, and nobody else shared this access. Somehow, the complication caught on.

Mike lifted his glass and sipped some more flavorless firewater. After setting it back on the mahogany bar table, he again tried to place the complication's identity, though not visually. Here, visual identity meant nothing, so he studied the complication's mannerisms, pausing when movement caught his attention.

The couple just rose to leave, so Mike polished off his drink and followed suit by starting towards the exit, planning to stand outside in wait.

He stepped into warm afternoon sunshine, eased towards a neighboring store, and slunk into its storefront cutout. From his pocket of obscurity, he watched the couple saunter out, then climb into a bright yellow taxi, one of many dotted along the street. He had to follow them.

Around these parts, disappearing couldn't be easier, and he couldn't let the couple place too much distance.

He emerged from the cutout, eyes on another luminescent transporter, one whose driver casually smoked while leaning against the hood. He stopped after one step.

"Fuck," he silently muttered, backtracking as the complication emerged.

Mike slunk back into obscurity, and the mystery man stopped on the concrete sidewalk, head cranking around, undoubtedly for the couple. He didn't know they entered a taxi and left, his ignorance freezing his feet. This drove Mike mad, and not only because contact to the targets had been severed, but because all doubt evaporated as to the complication's intentions.

The man continued snapping up and down the street, then stopped after spotting a nearby alley, one nestled between the pub and a convenient store. He started towards it, erroneously assuming that's where the couple went, while Mike stood in place, weighing his options. Follow the man or the couple?

He needed to decide fast, especially with the couple's taxi already belching its way around the opposite street corner. Cursing once more, he started for the alley.

Mike needed to uncover the operative's identity–need to uncover his motives. To this end, he took long strides towards the alley's mouth, which the man just now entered, then slowed while rounding into the dirty grey driveway.

As the man continued on, Mike kept pace with measured steps, halting when the man's feet locked in place.

"Fuck," Mike hissed once more, his clicking wingtip shoes surely giving him away. Or did the operative sense him?

Whatever the reason, the truth worked its way into the man, its constant seeping intensifying his breathing. Mike didn't care.

Given the magnitude of his mission, the man's dread couldn't factor less. The same went for his wellbeing.

Mike reached into his coat, unfastened the holster's retaining strap, and pulled his nickel-plated companion.

Cold steel heavy and waiting, he thumbed the weapon's hammer, the metallic click thundering down the alley. The man twitched, and the following the seconds passing like seasons. Then he slowly turned, and Mike, ready to solve the complication, brought up his steel.