You, Me and the FBI

Two Shots, No Sugar

The hiss of steamed milk filled the quiet lull between songs as Emma Rae Morgan wiped down the espresso machine for the third time in ten minutes. Rain tapped steadily at the windows, casting soft reflections of city lights across the coffee-slicked countertops. Outside, New York blurred — all umbrellas, headlights, and hurried footsteps. Inside the café, everything was still. Warm. Almost safe.

Emma preferred the rain. It gave people something else to look at. Something that made them walk faster, talk less, and pay no attention to the girl behind the counter with cinnamon on her sleeves and secrets stitched into her bones.

"Hey, Em," Ben called from behind the register. "You gonna keep cleaning that thing or actually let it rest?"

Emma smirked without looking up. "It deserves better than the sludge you make."

He laughed — the kind of easy, brotherly laugh she appreciated. Emma liked Ben. He didn't ask questions. Nobody here did. Driftwood Café wasn't the kind of place where people pried.

She poured two shots of espresso, the scent earthy and bitter, and added a splash of oat milk for the regular who always came in just before closing. A quiet man with round glasses and a journal full of crossword puzzles. He was here now, seated by the window, tracing lines of ink while raindrops followed paths down the glass beside him.

Emma brought the drink over. "Here you go, Mr. Lake."

He looked up, smiled softly. "You always remember."

"It's part of the job," she replied, returning to the counter, but something about the way he smiled lingered with her. He reminded her of someone. Or maybe of a time when things felt simpler — before code names, before target dossiers, before all the things she didn't say out loud anymore.

Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She dried her hands, glanced around — no one was watching — and checked the screen.

PIXEL: Target ID coming in hot. Meet tonight. 0100. Don't be late this time.

PIXEL: FBI involved. Dangerous.

Emma's pulse ticked up. FBI. That changed things. Their group normally worked under the radar — finding the criminals no one else could, doing what the law didn't or wouldn't. But if this guy was on the Bureau's radar and still loose... he was either clever, dirty, or useful.

She slid the phone back into her pocket. Her shift ended in twenty minutes.

At exactly 10:04 p.m., Emma locked up the café and stepped into the chill of the rain-soaked night. Her coat collar was pulled high, her hands buried deep in her pockets. To anyone watching, she was just another girl walking home from work, a little tired, a little wet, probably thinking about bills or rent or love.

But Emma didn't think about love. Not anymore.

Her apartment was four blocks away, above a used bookshop with a rusted fire escape and an alley that always smelled like damp paper. She took the stairs quickly, unlocked her door, and stepped into a space that barely qualified as cozy.

Exposed brick. One couch. Two locks on every window. A black cat named Cipher stared up at her from the windowsill like she was late.

"I know," she said, dropping her bag and feeding him. "I'm working on it."

She peeled off the café uniform — sweater, apron, boots — and stood in silence for a moment, letting the night settle. Her reflection in the darkened window looked ordinary. Young, tired, maybe even harmless.

Then she turned away and opened the hidden compartment behind her closet shelf.

Inside: gear. Black and matte and built for movement. Fingerless gloves. A set of ID cards in four different names. A burner phone. The world she didn't speak of — the one where she had no use for chai lattes or loyalty punch cards.

At 1:02 a.m., Emma entered the basement of the old train depot — their meeting spot for the last seven months. Dax, Milo, and Pixel were already there, surrounded by blueprints, wires, and a wall of flickering monitors.

"You're late," Pixel muttered, barely glancing up from her screen.

"Two minutes."

"That's late."

Emma ignored her and looked at the central monitor. A profile was loading — male, late twenties, sharp cheekbones, blue eyes.

"Name?" she asked.

Pixel spun her chair. "Jack. Last known alias: Jack Elias Ward. But that's not his real name. His files are scrambled. This guy's been on and off radar for years."

Emma's brow furrowed. "I know that name..."

"You should," Dax chimed in from across the table. "He was a legend in the theft world. High-tech jobs. Surveillance evasion. Digital vaults. Banks, museums, private collectors. Clean hits. Until he disappeared two years ago."

Pixel's fingers moved quickly across her keyboard. The screens flickered again — this time showing grainy security footage, old headlines, a wanted poster.

"Disappeared," Pixel said, "because the FBI grabbed him. Quietly. No court. No deal on the record. Nothing. And now he's back."

Emma's gaze narrowed. "Why?"

Pixel smirked. "That's what we're going to find out."

She pressed a key. A new window opened — and Emma's stomach dropped.

A dating profile. His face. His name. His bio.

Pixel turned slowly. "Recognize him now?"

Emma didn't answer.

Dax glanced between them. "Wait... did you already—?"

Emma's voice was very quiet. "We went out. Twice."

Silence hit the room like a punch.

"You what?" Milo asked.

Emma stared at the screen.

Jack Elias Ward.
Age: 28.
Security consultant.
Loves chess, vintage cars, and blues music.
Looking for something real.