My name is Emma B, and I'm the unofficial editor of the Rebel Voice. The official editor is W. Lyon MacKenzie, which is the name of my pet chameleon, and a name I occasionally hide behind. I've learned the value of being hidden through all my lines of work.
It's 5:25am and I've been sat at my desk in the Diplomatic Corps offices for the past hour and a half, reading a briefing. Two years ago I was writing briefings like this, now I'm hoping that they didn't miss anything important out. This is for the trade meetings that start today, and my job is essentially bait. The lead negotiator on the other side has a weakness for women like me -- about 5'10, hair the colour of bitter Peruvian chocolate, an impish smile -- so I'll be leading the initial talks and working on concessions. I sigh, turn the page of the briefing and reach for a salted caramel from the bag at the back of my desk.
My other mobile rings and I answer it immediately. Someone's calling the Rebel Voice. I hear the last few words from the automated message, and then a familiar voice.
“If anyone is there pick up the phone.”
I can hang up now, and the machine will take the message, but it's Red 5. I don't know a lot about him but I know his work and it's good. He mails in pictures of the pieces he's done, high quality digital shots of lovingly executed graffiti. They've done a lot to boost our online profile.
"Please," he says.
“Hey Red, what’s going on?”
"I've got a piece you need to see but my location has been compromised,” he says. “It’s at the back of the First State Bank on East 8th Avenue but if you can’t get someone there in ten minutes it will be too late.”
“I’ll be there in five,” I say and hang up. The First State Bank is two streets away. I grab my purse, check it to make sure that my camera's inside, and head for the door. I could use the fresh air anyway.