The Squab HQ

The target left the restaurant at 13:47, which happened to be exactly three minutes earlier than expected. Reginald made note of this, not because it meant much but because Reginald was as fastidious as a pigeon can be.

Reginald was perched on the ledge of the building opposite the restaurant, which had been chosen for its line of vision and its gargoyles. The gargoyles were important. A pigeon seen on an empty ledge, in this city at least, would be assumed to be on a stakeout. A pigeon on a ledge with four gargoyles, from a distance, is five gargoyles.

“He’s m-moving,” Reginald stuttered, into his earpiece.

“I see him,” said Daisy. Daisy was two windows down and four windows over to the left — inside the building of course. There was no need to be outside. Daisy had been told once, by a human, that she had the eyes of a doe and complexion of a flamingo, which she had taken to heart in ways that were not always useful.

“I also see him,” said Cortis. Cortis was on the ground, in an alley, angry about something that had happened earlier that day and had not yet been resolved. Cortis was often on the ground, and often angry, though not in any way the department had been able to document. His personnel file once noted that he didn’t respond too well to heights.

“I see him as well,” said Bert, after a long enough pause that Reginald had started to wonder whether Bert had forgotten which ‘him’ he was referring to.

“Wait for the signal,” Reginald said. “We n-need the exchange on record. The Chief has been clear. No exchange, no arrest. Six months, Bert. We have been on this for six months.”

“Right,” Bert said, blinking slowly.

“S-say it back to me.”

“No exchange... no Bert?”

Reginald closed his eyes in weary resignation. When he opened them, the target had crossed the street as he was approaching a second man who was waiting by an orange car. The man by the orange car was the one they really wanted. The man from the restaurant was what the paperwork called the conveyance, and what Cortis called, with veiled irritation, the man with two arms and two legs.

The exchange was meant to take between four and six seconds. Reginald had timed three previous exchanges between these two men, and they had all been within that window. He had written a memo about it. He was, in a small private way, proud of the memo.

“On my cue,” Reginald said, his voice steady with the eagerness of someone who is about to be vindicated by their own paperwork.

The man with two arms and two legs reached into his coat pocket.

he man by the orange car reached into his coat briefly after.

“Wait!” Reginald shouted into his earpiece.

Bert leapt from his location.