Tuxedo Mystery

She stood on the side of the road, waiting. Her eyes flickered from right to left, searching for something in the distance. A gentle wind crept through the nearby trees, waving tangles of delicate branches of the weeping willows that marked this edge of town, and tossing strands of her own light blond hair that managed to escape from underneath the sleek black cap meant to conceal. Anyone passing by would have to be looking with heightened awareness to catch the elusive, darting whites of her eyes, which were the only part that stood out from the darkness. Even her breathing, though tense and sharp, was mellowed to a calm, almost unmoving, rhythm that blended in with the quiet movement of the landscape. Had a person been close enough to witness, her face bore a distinct appearance of determination, and a fierce resolution to push apprehension behind the curtain. Fear was not an option. It could not even be a thought. She waited with unmoving patience, poised and listening for the minutest sound, but completely still from head to toe. Last time was just too close. They needed proof of her ability, that her “gifts” could be maintained. And proof always came at such a high cost.
The signal had come the previous day, so glaring she had thought the establishment reckless to be out in such plain sight. But who was she, a mere messenger, to question method.
Racing the clock in a dead run the whole way, she had arrived at her cover placement only a few minutes before her work shift was to begin, and had been slightly out of breath upon climbing the stairs to the main dining room. That’s when she spotted the pair, dressed in the signature attire of inner sanctum meetings—neatly pressed and matching tuxedos, marked gold rings, and inside the left pocket, though she could not see it, a small pinned medal, indicating location, rank and number, also used as tracking devices by those in the higher core. She knew it was there, could almost sense its frequency waves, for her own breast held one just like it, attached permanently to the strap of black lace. It pressed every so slightly against her left side, just above her heart, like a constant reminder of how deep her roots lay. And how deep they could cut.
Another server, unnaturally blond and bubbly, was attending to the two gentlemen, serving them drinks from the bar, but the man on right turned his head and locked his dark eyes on her ice blue stare, if only for a fraction of second. The connection was made, and her breathing slowed as her skilled frame paused, consciously slowing its pulse, and letting her recognition go undetected to the staff and guests.
She smiled pleasantly at a fellow coworker and serenely walked toward their table, approaching the dark one, but turning away at the last minute to greet an incoming regular at the front of the restaurant with well rehearsed lines. No one suspected. No one took notice. No one saw the small white paper, size of a business card, being slipped into the back pocket of her uniform as she flashed by. Only she felt the tiny graze against her body, and suppressed a shiver of horror and excitement. And perhaps guilt. Of a crime not yet committed, but as good as done.
They would stay and chat with the nice, light waitress, yet never a second glance back at the messenger. Minimal contact, maximum effect. The gold writing on the back of the business card was more than enough. The assignment was issued.