The driver turned the van off the busy main boulevard, and down a narrow alley. We were in an upscale part of town, buildings towering over our heads. The buildings were tall, but they weren’t ostentatious skyscrapers. Our employers preferred more reserved, classical displays of wealth.
We pulled up to a rolling door nestled between a loading dock and a private parking garage. Nobody was around, this alley had no storefronts or anything else to attract attention.
The driver rolled down his window, a light on an intercom flicked on automatically. Security must have been watching through cameras. At places like this, they always were.
“Please state your business,” the intercom squawked. Bland and professional and anonymous.
“We’re here for WMI company,” the driver said. WMI was Wilton-Mathers Inc. — the company we worked for, on paper anyway. WMI was not the type of company that you’d ever hear about, and if you researched it you wouldn’t find anything useful, least of all who owned it.
The intercom light turned off, nothing more needing to be said. The door opened, and the driver pulled the van through. We drove down a ramp to an underground road a few stories down. The road ended at a large underground garage, filled with ordinary cars.