“Wednesday are never great for table tennis,” the man said, voice low and rough.

She blinked. Glanced his way. “Sorry?”

He kept his gaze ahead, as if he hadn’t said a thing. His hair was greying, tucked under a flat cap that didn’t quite suit him. He wore dark rimmed glasses that sat too low on the curved bridge of his nose.

“Wednesdays are never great for table tennis,” he repeated.

Perplexed, she quickly surveyed their surroundings to check he wasn’t talking to anybody else. Aside from a lone dog walker in the distance, though, there was nobody in the vicinity.

“…it’s Friday.”

He did look at her then, a deep line appearing between his brows, his mouth flattening tightly.

Perhaps he was confused, she thought. Unwell.

She cleared her throat, turned to face him slightly. Their knees knocked and he glanced down, but still he remained quiet. Gently, she said, “It’s Friday the eighth of June.”

“Yes,” he said, pointedly. “Friday, eighth of June, forty nine minutes past eleven. On the ninth bench of the east-west path through Melody Park”

Tilting her wrist up she could see that he was right about the time. A quick glance to their left told her he was correct about the number of benches, too. “Right,” she said.

He stared still, one eyebrow eventually arching expectantly. “And Wednesdays…are never great…for table tennis.”

She lifted both hands, palm up, nothing to offer except for a barely perceptible shake of her head.

His shoulders slumped. “Just give me the bag.”

Instinctively her grip tightening on her satchel. It had been fairly expensive a few years ago, one of very few luxuries she’d ever afforded herself, and even though it was a little tired and a little worn now, she loved it.

He reached out an impatient hand and gave the bag a little tug. “We don’t have time for this, give it.”

She clutched it tighter still. “Wh…? No.”

For a second he bared his teeth like a gorilla.

“These one-off hires, I swear to god,” he muttered, shaking his head as he reached into his jacket. “How old are you, twenty one? Christ. Retention issues, they say. The economy’s tough even for us, blah blah blah.”

She heard the noise before she saw it. A sound she only knew from movies. A muffled click. And there it was, a long black gun, aimed right into her side.

She felt her heart rate spike, a sudden dizziness coming over her.

He was as casual as ever. “Meanwhile here I am, wasting my time because you can’t remember the code phrases. No, not as young as twenty one. I can tell by your frown lines.”

He huffed, nudged the tip of the silencer into her lower rib.

“Anyway,” he said. “Bag. Now.”

He nudged again for good measure.

Her clammy fingers loosened, seemingly one by one, until he was able to wrangle the bag from her grip.

“Thank you,” he said, the words steeped in sarcasm.

Then he was up and gone, setting off to the right past the duck pond with her bag tucked tightly to his side, a handful of geese waddling furiously out of his path.

She watched him go, his steps seeming to match the quickened pulse that thundered in her ears.

The sudden vibration of her phone in her back pocket made her shriek. Nearby pigeons scattered into the air, but the man didn’t turn back.

Dad calling, her phone read.

She took a moment before answering.

“Hi,” she breathed, tongue clumsy and dry.

The response came fast and clearly worried. Her dad had been so apprehensive about her moving to the city.

“No, I’m- I’m okay…I just…” She sighed.

She didn’t take her eyes off the retreating figure.

“I think a spy just accidentally stole my lunch.”