Jack sits in the bar nursing an orange juice. He is at work, after all, and although he’d much rather be getting on the outside of a cold beer, he has to admit it is a refreshing orange juice, served up by a very cute girl for the sum total of diddly squat. He’s not surprised. This is Max’s bar and Max has put a lot of time, money and effort into making it as fancy as possible. All booths and black wood and chrome fittings, marble counter tops, very chic. It represents Max’s retirement plan, when or if he ever gets out of the trade. It must have cost a fortune renovating and decorating the place, let alone paying for the floor space. Top floor, overlooking Covent Garden. What with the fancy drinks list and fancier clientele, it isn’t exactly Jack’s cup of tea. He wishes he were sat on a squashy old sofa in the cosy surrounds of his neighbourhood boozer, all warm oaks and pint mugs with handles. The company of his old friends, cheering on Chelsea with a pint in his hand.

No, this kind of bar was not his scene at all. So the booths were comfy, so what? He imagines the kind of people that come here. Tarquins and Ffions fresh out of the office banging on endlessly about leveraging this and synergizing that, not a single authentic thought between them. All they care about is money and status and the endless whirl of sex and drugs and big bonuses. He isn’t one of them and he never wants to be one of them. He never wanted to be one of them before he discovered his Talent.

But it’s Max’s bar and Max’s business and Max, by mutual agreement, is in charge. Max told him to be here before their new contact turned up at half one, some girl in her early twenties with dark hair. Jack is waiting and watching the rolling 24-hour news on the big screen above the bar. Red Line is up to his old tricks. Broke up a robbery a few days ago, handed out some instant justice and when one of the robbers ended up dying last night of his injuries, the THF get themselves invited on TV and spout their anti-Talent bullshit without any rebuttal. True Human Foundation. His eyes roll. What do they know about being truly human? They’re just as fake and full of shit as Tarquin and Ffion. Jack went to one of their rallies one time to see their ‘humanity’ for himself and all he saw under the righteous bullshit was the exact hatred and fear he’d expected. He’s not the violent type but he smiles when he thinks what Red Line could do to the THF if he were allowed.

He checks his watch, stretches and stifles a yawn. One fifteen. He was the first customer and other than the barmaid, who is super-hot, only a handful wraith-like morning alcoholics had passed through on their road trip to oblivion and none of them were women. He’d positioned himself where he could watch her work and imagine the body under the shirt in his hands. He’d smiled his most charming smile when he ordered and he’d enjoyed the sunniness of the smile she’d returned. He almost believed she fancied him. Almost. He knows her type. Just like the Quentins and Camillas, she would do anything to get ahead and get her snout in the trough. Her politeness is obviously a deception. He can read the falsehood in her aura as though the word ‘LIAR’ was written on her face in lipstick. Just like the hippies claimed, everyone has an aura, which undulates and ripples with their emotions.

Jack has a higher calling. He’s well aware of how special he is, how rare and unusual his Talent is. It was Max that tracked him down and recruited him and Max is about as big a legend there ever was among Talents. Bigger name than Red Line, even. Jack believes one day he’ll be more famous than both of them combined. His mother was always reminding him of what a sensitive little angel he’d been as a child. Like every mother, she professed her belief in his uniqueness and special status to anyone within earshot. She never realised how right she was. He is one in a million, one Talented for a million Normies, the global average. He hadn’t known it either. He’d had his moment of revelation as a boy.

The door bangs open. A delivery of wine, six boxes hauled up the four flights of stairs on one of those climbing hand-carts by some poor bastard who’s now more sweat than man. The irritation is dripping off him as much as the sweat. The barmaid jogs over, chest bouncing under her polo shirt, twittering with concern. She’s not actually concerned that Jack can see. He detects a thick current of amusement in her manner.

“Poor thing!” she lies. “Can I get you some water?”

“Don’t s’pose you’ve got a freight lift in the back room?”

“All sold out!” Her voice sarcastically bright.

“Better just sign then,” the deliveryman grumbles, slapping the documents on top of the boxes.

She signs and he hands her a copy, freeing the hand truck.

“See ya,” he mumbles and bangs the door open on his way out.

The barmaid sighs and hauls the boxes into the storeroom. Although her cheeks aren’t wearing the customary pink blush, Jack wonders why she’s feeling embarrassed. It’s not like she wasn’t polite or friendly, artificial though it was. It’s not her fault that the bar sits at the top of the building. Yet she’s the one touched by shame, not the man who’d stomped in and conducted himself like an angry toddler.

It annoys him how people are strange and confusing. When he began understanding how his Talent enabled him to see beneath people’s everyday masks into the true emotions, all he could do was pick out the strongest. Suppressed anger, faked joy, the primal things like hunger and thirst and concealed pain. Even a child knows why people lie but for a boy of six, seeing exactly how much of our daily interactions were nothing but fronts was bewildering. Back then, he knew with the fierce conviction of the innocent that the world would be a better place if people were just honest with each other. The hurt of being tagged as having a developmental disorder, some rare form of spectrum disorder, stung him until he learned that deception was the norm and that he needed to hide what he could detect in others.

Here he sits, a human polygraph machine. As if waiting was the unique ability he possessed. Maybe he should have gone in for the lucrative and fulfilling life of a security guard. Endless waiting, just in case.

The door swings open again, pushed open by a young woman smartly dressed in a sheer white blouse and black jeans, a daysack slung over one shoulder. Jack looks her up and down. Early twenties, long dark hair hanging loose, slender. He checks the time. One thirty. This has to be her. The description fits. Better than that, the cherry on top, is how she feels. Jack watches her all the way to the bar, tasting her emotions. She walks through the bar like a lioness, calm and with an easy sway to her hips, but her mind is wary. Something in her expression speaks of a familiarity with the bar and its layout. Wary, but not nervous - there’s a layer of steel beneath it all, an attractive confidence. Jack texts to Max, come up.

“Hiya!” the barmaid smiles, genuine warmth this time.

“Still water,” the girl says, all poise. “I’m looking for Max.”

The barmaid passes her a bottle and a glass filled with ice.

“Over there”, she says, nodding towards Jack.

The girl glances over. Her eyes flash with momentary doubt. “Thanks. How much?”

“On the house.”

The girl steps towards Jack’s booth. She sets her drink down on the table. Jack feels her eyes roam over him, appraising his wrinkled T-shirt and ripped jeans. The slightest edge of disapproval.

“You,” she says, “are not Max.”

“Take a seat,” he says. “He’s on his way.”

“Where is he?” she says.

Jack shrugs, says nothing. His eyes crawl over her body as she slides into the booth opposite and sits down with her back to the door. Not exactly a model, he decides, not exactly his type either. Too tall, for starters, face a little thin. He fixes on her chest. Something distracting about her tits under her blouse, something just right. Beautiful eyes, almost green and piercing in intensity, in a face that was easy to look at. The kind of girl you’d like to meet when clubbing, the kind of girl you’d want to break a dry spell with.

Irritation is rising within her. He had admired for too long, not that he cared about her mood. Too bad. She should take it as a compliment. Talents like him normally had their pick of women. Pyro had been a legendary cocksman, by reputation not remotely picky. Zeus was supposed to have nine or ten children by a similar number of women.

“I don’t appreciate having my time wasted,” she says.

“He’s coming,” Jack says. “Just making sure you’re alone.”

The girl snorts, a gentle mixture of amusement and pique.

“Why don’t you frisk me?” she says. “Oh wait, you already did.”

Jack meets her gaze, holds it, then smiles as he looks away. The thrill of battle. The door opens again. Max.

“That’s him, then,” she says, reading Jack’s face.

Max glides up to the table with all the grace of a ballet dancer mid-performance, every motion economical and exact. The girl rises and faces him. Max stands a hair shorter than her, his salt-and-pepper hair and pencil moustache immaculate, his cornflower blue shirt and white slacks fitting as well as if they had grown into place around him. An elegant brown leather satchel is slung over a shoulder. She returns his smile and accepts his handshake.

“Susan,” Max purrs.

“Max,” Susan says.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Max says, releasing her hand. Jack slides around the booth and Max sits opposite Susan. “I’ve heard so many stories about you. Has Jack made you feel welcome?”

“Has he never seen a woman before?”

Max quirks an eyebrow at Jack who shrugs, fair cop.

“He is a bit of a rogue but I assure you he has a heart of gold. Do apologise, young man.” Max radiates a mixture of annoyance and shame.

“Sorry,” Jack says without a note of apology in his voice.

“Are you?” Susan says. Jack winks and blows a kiss at her.

Susan laughs, a single short bark. “Accepted,” she lied. “It’s normal for immature young men to harass women.”

Max tilts his head back and laughs, a long musical stream of amusement. He stops as the barmaid brings over a glass of ice water for him. The table remains silent until the barmaid returns behind the bar and puts on a pair of headphones.

“And now we’re all feeling jolly well embarrassed, why don’t we get on with it?” Max says, a warm smile lighting up his face.

“Martina said you needed me to help you find something. How do you know her?”

“I need a lawyer sometimes,” Max says.

“A human rights lawyer?”

“Our work is usually in the field of human rights.”

“Usually?”

“This one is outside our normal sphere of interest,” Max sips from his water. “Martina tells me you have a unique approach to your line of work, but not what that is. I’d like to know more about your previous jobs.”

Max watches Susan’s face closely. Jack, his eyes on the ceiling, feels her wariness dissipate, replaced with comfort. She sits back in her chair, her shoulders relaxing.

“Which one would you like to know more about?”

“Let’s start with the Titian. However did you get into a storage facility with a patrolled perimeter, security cameras, guard dogs and multiple redundant locks?” Max says.

“From the roof of the building opposite and in through a skylight. How else?” Susan says.

Jack brings his eyes back from the ceiling and looks at her, eyebrows raised. It was a famous robbery. The ‘building opposite’ was twenty five metres away with a vertical difference of fifteen metres. Yet Susan was not lying - not a single mote of dishonesty present in her aura.

“And how did you open the safe?” Max says.

“I picked it.”

“You picked an SLS Gem?” Max bares his teeth, a disbelieving snarl. “A safe with four separate mechanisms? And you picked it? Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Susan snaps her fingers.

Max glances over at Jack. “She’s telling the truth,” Jack says.

“I can pick any mechanical lock,” Susan says, “and bypass just about any mechanism.”

Jack nods. Susan snaps her head around and glares at him. Irritation has become anger the way a single lit match lights a fire.

“Why are you even here? Are you some kind of Reader?”

“Something like that, yeah.” Jack glares back. It’s one thing to have called him out for ogling her, but he won’t stand to be humiliated in front of a partner.

Max thuds his satchel onto the table. The glasses bounce and the ice clinks.

“Would you mind awfully if I could have a demonstration of your skills?” Max says.

He opens the satchel and pulls out a padlock, built like two steel fists, one atop the other.

“I don’t have my tools,” Susan says. Jack smiles as he feels an instant switch in her demeanor. The arrogance and self-possession of the last few minutes has disappeared, replaced by nervousness. Her face hides it well, but her fear is building.

“Sergeant and Greenleaf 951C,” Max says. “I’d like you to open it.”

“D’you really think I go equipped around the streets of London like a common burglar?” Susan says.

“My dear, you are anything but a common burglar. Moreover, from what I’ve heard, you don’t need tools.”

Susan stews in her seat, and Jack doesn’t need his Talent to read her discomfort.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she manages.

Max sighs, very theatrical, the kind of sigh you might hear in a low-rent gangster movie.

“Here and now? In the open? What’s in it for me?” she says

“My respect. Your reputation. Your…status,” Max says. “So, yes, please, here and now, in the open, no touching.”

The bottom falls out of Susan’s stomach and Jack gets vertigo in sympathy with her. He’s been here too. That first moment when someone outs you publicly as Talented is as long as any moment in your life before it. He’s glad it wasn’t just him who shat bricks in that moment. Her brow is beaded with sweat and her eyes flicker back and forth between him and Max.

Max raises a hand. “Please, relax. We know you’re Talented and we know you’re Unregistered. I have no intention of handing you over to the Authority.”

Jack can’t help feeling a little admiration for the girl. She’s walked into a trap and she’s handling the pressure. No floods of tears, no begging, no sign of running for the door. Except -

“Adrenaline,” Jack says.

“No need for violence,” Max says, nodding. “Humour me. We need your help with an ethical problem.”

“Oh really? Blackmail not enough of an ethical problem for you?”

“Touche,” Max says. “Humour me.”

Susan looks down at the padlock, imposing in its solidity. Jack reckons it has to weigh at least two kilos and would make a very effective cudgel in a brawl. Susan puts her hands flat on the table, palm down.

“Count three seconds from when I close my eyes,” she says. “Count aloud.”

“By all means,” Max laughs.

“Nothing up my sleeves,” Susan mutters.

She closes her eyes, frowns.

“One Mississippi,”

The tension clears from her face.

"Two mi-”

The clasp of the lock pops open with a snap.

Jack’s jaw drops open. “How the fuck did you - “

“I’m Talented,” she says, “or weren’t you listening? Let’s stop playing games, shall we, boys? What’s the job, and whats the payment?”

Max nods and reaches into his satchel again. He extracts a buff A4 envelope and hands it to Susan.

“Professor William Chase is a leading biomedical researcher. Unusually, he’s something of a traditionalist when it comes to research as he prefers to use live animals as test subjects, as opposed to cloned cell lines.”

Susan is leafing through the contents of the envelope. “Go on.”

“My organisation currently finds itself opposed to vivisection in general and is horrified specifically by research as ephemeral as Chase’s.”

Susan studies a photo of Chase, a wild-eyed, wilder-haired man in his fifties.

“More specifically?” she says.

“His research for London University uses primates as subjects in inter-species tissue transplantation. This is the fifth year of his project which has produced little more than a growing pile of dead chimps.”

Susan looks up from a photo of a handsome Victorian house.

“What precisely do you need me to acquire?”

“We have an informant inside his research group. Chase is going away on holiday with his wife next Sunday morning and we wish to obtain his set of primate lab keys. He takes the keys home every night and leaves them secured in a lockbox or safe of some kind in his house,” Max says. “That house is defended by a number of security cameras and alarms.”

“What are you planning to do with the keys?” Susan says. “You know my reputation so you know the kind of jobs I take.”

Jack watches Max fake an uncomfortable shuffle.

“Humour me,” Susan says.

“Free the animals where possible. Euthanise where unavoidable. Burn the place to the ground.”

Susan catches Max’s eye and smiles. Determination allied to a sense of righteousness.

“How much?”

“Five K, half today, half on delivery. Plus a promise of discretion on the, ah, difficult topic.”

“Fine,” Susan says.

Max hands Susan a small paper Harrod's shopping bag. She looks inside and removes a large envelope from it.

“I’ll count it now, if you don’t mind.”

“As you wish,” Max says.

Susan ruffles through the contents. “Thank you,” she says and pauses. She reaches back inside the bag and comes out with a business card. “I’ll contact you on this when I’m done.”

“Good luck, Susan,” Max says.

Susan packs the envelopes into her bag.

“I’ll be in touch,” she says. She stands and offers her hand to Max. One handshake later, she strides from the table and out the door, the lioness on the hunt.

She didn’t have a smile for Jack. Not even a backward glance. Bitch, he thinks.