The man hits the carpeted floor with a thud. Jake gives him a pat-down. No ID. Just a Glock with a silencer, two magazines, one car key, a lighter and a packet of cigarettes. These people are so predictably passé.
Jake glances at his watch: 22:42. It’s going down soon, one way or another. As expected, the open-plan office is dark and empty. Taking a palm-sized scanner from his back pocket, he swipes each item and the dead guy. Good, no trackers—well, except for the thing locked around his own ankle. They’ll probably break through his jammer eventually. He huffed, wishing he had time to saw it off.