Leon hated daylight jobs.
Too many witnesses. Too much confidence. Night made liars honest. Daytime made them sloppy.
The lot sat behind a shuttered strip mall, asphalt cracked like a bad promise. Noon sun bounced off windshields, forcing everyone to squint—another layer of discomfort Crowley loved. Exposure without explanation.
Leon arrived early. Of course he did.
He parked crooked, hood facing out, keys in his pocket, go-bag at his feet. The pistol stayed tucked, invisible, present. He didn't smoke. He didn't pace. He watched.
Two minutes late, a white van rolled in.
Rental. Again.
Leon's jaw tightened.
The driver stayed inside. That was wrong. The passenger door opened instead, and a man stepped out holding nothing. No bag. No clipboard. No confidence.
Leon clocked the hands first. Empty. Clean.
"Dry run?" Leon called out.
The man nodded. "Protocol."
Leon didn't move. "Whose?"
The man smiled like he'd practiced it. "The kind that keeps everyone alive."
Leon almost laughed.
"Wrong pitch," he said. "Start over."
The man hesitated, then reached into his jacket slowly and pulled out a phone. He held it up like a badge.
"Crowley," he said.
That name still had weight. Even spoken wrong, it bent rooms.
Leon stepped closer. Not aggressive. Curious. "Then you're late."
The man frowned. "We're on time."
Leon leaned in just enough for the man to feel crowded. "Crowley's never on time. He's either early or dead."
The man swallowed.
"Who else is supposed to be here?" Leon asked.
The man glanced toward the mall.
That was all Leon needed.
Leon moved.
He grabbed the man's wrist, twisted, and sent the phone skidding across the asphalt. A second man bolted from behind a dumpster—too fast, too rehearsed.
Leon drew and fired once.
Not to kill. To teach.
The round cracked concrete inches from the runner's foot. He stumbled, screamed, and kept running.
The first man froze, breath shallow, eyes wide.
"Dry run means no surprises," Leon said quietly. "You brought two."
The man nodded too hard.
Leon let go and stepped back.
"Tell Crowley," Leon said, "that next time I won't be educational."
The man scrambled back to the van without looking up. Tires squealed. The lot emptied.
Leon stood alone, heart steady, ears ringing faintly.
Dry run.
That was Crowley checking distance. Testing response time. Seeing if the asset still bit.
Leon bent, picked up the phone from the asphalt, and smashed it under his heel.
Patterns, he reminded himself.
You didn't stop them.
You learned where they led.
Leon got in his car and drove away without looking back, already planning which safe place to burn next.
Crowley had his answer.
Leon was still sharp.
And that meant the real run was coming.