"For every million above thirty that the property gets sold, a commission bonus of 50 grand will be given."
Philip nearly dropped his tablet. "Thank you very much for your generosity. I will ensure there will be no problems. There are many people who would want to buy this place. I will gather some big buyers for the auction of the place."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The elevator dinged as they reached the twentieth floor of yet another high-rise. Philip—still buttoned-up and overly enthusiastic—led the way like a real estate tour guide on commission steroids.
"Here is the second unit," he announced, arms wide like he was selling a dream. "Waterfront view near East River Park. Minimalist with a clean decor. Just over a hundred square meters. A bit snug, but it is quite popular with bachelors."
James stepped inside first. The air was crisp and the place was spotless. One bedroom, open living area, kitchen with quartz counters, floor-to-ceiling windows that show off the East River. On paper? Great. In practice?
Carlos grunted. "Too exposed."
James nodded. "Yeah. Feels like living in a glass house, everything is seen with nothing to hide."
Philip blinked. "Well, I assure you, the windows are reinforced and quite soundproof—"
"It's not about the sound, Phil. It's about getting scoped from three neighboring rooftops and one commercial drone."
Philip coughed into his hand, suddenly unsure if that was a joke.
"Rent it," James said. "It'll make a nice home for some media influencers trying to look rich and all that."
"Noted." Philip scribbled something gleefully into his tablet. Another commission he could take, even if it was smaller than he'd hoped.
The third property was better.
A sleek apartment in a newer complex, top-floor unit, big open space, and more than twice the square footage of the last one. Newly built with not much history to it, which James liked. No chance for the ghost of Sloan to linger in the walls.
He stepped out onto the wraparound terrace, taking in the skyline, the quiet hum of Midtown, and the lack of superhero-related damage in the vicinity.
Carlos looked around, impressed. "At least this place was built this century, with no previous tenants."
"No deadbolt rust. No bloodstains. No fireplace that hides a shotgun," James added.
Philip cleared his throat. "This one wasn't heavily invested in, but the market value has increased significantly. It could be flipped, but many clients have opted to keep units here long-term—"
"We'll keep it as a base," James cut in. "Backup plan."
Carlos agreed with a curt nod. "It's defensible."
Which, in assassin-term, meant the exits were clear, the sightlines were good, and the neighbors wouldn't ask questions if you carried a duffel bag at 2 a.m.
Philip smiled, hopeful. "If everything is all good, let us head for the last one."
"Lead the way," James said, already preparing himself for disappointment. It was always the last one that could either give a dramatic finale or a grand prize.
The drive was short. They crossed toward the East Side, near the UN Headquarters. With a call connecting them together as Philip drove in front of them leading the way, they talked as they went, though James had tuned out halfway through his explanation of postwar zoning codes.
"The final property is a villa," Philip announced. "Built shortly after World War II. It may be slightly aged, but it hasn't lost it's beauty to the modern age in any way. Classic structures, the original post-war designs, and the substantial land value it holds."
James raised an eyebrow. "Define substantial."
As they rounded a corner where the villa would come to view.
"Oh," Carlos muttered.
"Oh hell," James said.
The place wasn't a house. It was practically a damn estate. Wide lawns, iron gates, trees taller than the building itself. A football field away from the Robert Moses Playground, and across the street from the United Nations compound.
In New York.
They parked out front. James stepped out and squinted at the absurd expanse of concrete, marble, and faded grandeur.
"This isn't a villa," he said. "This is a mini-embassy."
Philip beamed. "Technically, it's a zoned residential, though if you wish to rebuild it, the land could support multiple high-rises—"
"Nope," James interrupted. "This is a magnet for every drone, spy satellite, and random intern from an intelligence agency doing a neighborhood scan."
Carlos circled the property like it personally offended him. "Even if we rebuild, someone's gonna wonder what two guys like us are doing here."
Philip laughed awkwardly. "Well, in America, if it's legal, and you have money, you can do anything."
"Yeah, well, we're trying not to be noticed. This screams cartel safehouse or retired Russian arms dealer."
Carlos gave the long driveway a final look. "We're not living here."
James nodded. "Third apartment it is."
Back in the car, they made the decision official.
"Sell the first two apartments," James told Philip. "Auction this villa off. Don't even bother flipping it. Someone with a security team and a black SUV fetish will love it."
"And the third apartment?" Philip asked.
"We keep it. It's high up, quiet, and easy to fortify."
Carlos added, "And we can make modifications without a city council hearing."
Philip was already typing faster than a Wall Street intern on Adderall. "Understood. I'll get in contact with our auction partners for the estate. There's a chance we could interest some foreign investors. The lot alone is worth—"
"Do whatever you want with it," James said, stepping into the car. "We're just gonna live like two boring guys trying not to get haunted down."
"Oh, one last thing," Philip said as they prepared to drive off. "The third apartment hasn't been renovated. Shall I recommend a designer?"
James smirked. "Send us the list. No marble statues or minimalist chic nonsense. Just make sure the walls are bulletproof and the kitchen doesn't suck."
Philip made sure to keep his new clients happy, with the massive potential commissions he would get, any and every suspicious and concerning talk his clients might have said was just thrown out the window and forgotten.
That evening, James and Carlos returned to the top-floor apartment.
It was empty, quiet, a little dusty—but peaceful. For once, no gunfire. No alarms. No explosions or any sort of noise in the distance.
Just the city, humming beneath them.
Cortana flickered to life in James's eye, her blue interface appearing before him.
[Location: confirmed. Threat matrix: 0. Structural scan: adequate. Welcome home, James.]
James let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Carlos cracked open a beer and sat by the window.
"We did it," James muttered. "We're really out."
"For now," Carlos replied.
But they both knew: out didn't mean safe. Not forever, but it did mean peace—for the meantime.
And for now, that was enough.