I checked the back seat before getting in. Empty. Locked the doors. Turned the ignition.
I looked at the plastic tag in my hand: Metro Fitness – 8th Avenue. It was an old 24-hour basement gym near the train station. My logical brain told me to drive straight to the precinct on Main Street. But the note kept echoing in my head: I found you first. If someone had stashed something meant for me in that locker, going to the police might make them act before I understood what was happening.
Ten minutes later, I was descending the concrete stairs into the humid, chlorine-scented basement of Metro Fitness. The night clerk barely looked up from his phone as I passed the front desk.
I walked into the dimly lit, metal-lined locker room. It was completely deserted. The low hum of the ventilation fan echoed off the damp green tiles.
I found locker 114 in the back row, tucked near the showers. My hands were slick with sweat as I fitted the brass key into the lock and turned it.
Clack.
The metal door swung open.
Inside, sitting on the top shelf, was a thick manila folder and a small digital audio recorder with a piece of blue painter’s tape stuck to the screen. Written on the tape in the exact same handwriting as the windshield note was one word: PLAY.
I pressed the button.
The small speaker crackled to life, playing a recorded conversation between two men. The audio was slightly muffled, as if recorded from inside a car.
“Is he still at the house?” a voice asked.
“Yeah,” a second voice replied. “He’s sitting in his living room right now. Unpacked his stuff two hours ago. He thinks he’s safe.”
“Does he know about the contract?”
“No. The client paid upfront. We take him out tonight at 3:00 AM.”
I froze, the blood draining entirely from my face. The second voice on the tape… belonged to the man who had followed me today.
I grabbed the manila folder and whipped it open. Inside were surveillance photos of me. Photos of me getting coffee, photos of my car, and a printed copy of a dark-web hit contract listing my name, address, and a bounty payout. Attached to the corner of the contract was a small yellow sticky note written in that same jagged handwriting:
They were hired to kill you tonight. I killed them both in the parking garage while you were at the diner. You’re safe now.
I stared at the paper, my breath hitching in my throat. Relief—sudden, overwhelming, and dizzying—washed over me. Someone had saved my life. Someone had been watching over me, protecting me from a hitman.
Then my phone buzzed with a text message from an unknown number.
I opened it with trembling fingers.
You’re welcome for taking care of them, the message read. Now your debt is transferred to me. See you at 3:00 AM.
