7:41 AM
In the bakery, Grey Wolf stood at the counter.
The clerk was a girl in her early twenties, her brown hair tied in a ponytail, with a professional smile on her face.
She asked him in English what he wanted.
"One croissant, one coffee, to go," Grey Wolf said.
The girl nodded and turned to get the bread.
Grey Wolf's gaze swept over the glass behind the counter.
It was one-way glass, invisible from the outside, but from this angle, he could see the window of room 316 across the street.
The blinds were still drawn.
The girl handed him the paper bag and coffee; he paid in cash, turned, and walked out.
Just as he stepped out of the bakery, "Squirrel's" voice came through the earpiece: "Position one ready."
Grey Wolf didn't respond.
He walked towards the laundromat, pacing neither fast nor slow, like a businessman ready to pick up freshly laundered shirts.
The laundromat was next to the business center, not large, with a red "24-hour" sticker on the glass door.
