I don't react.Don't let him see the calculation running through my head.We weren't supposed to meet with Marquez for two more hours.He's moved it up—no warning, no prep time.Throwing her straight into the deep end to see if she can swim.
Not off to a good start.
The SUV slows as we move deeper into the industrial stretch near the river.Warehouses line the streets, their metal siding streaked with rust.Most of them look abandoned—perfect for the kind of work Marquez’s crew runs.
We turn into a narrow alley between two corrugated structures.No signs.No markings.Just cracked asphalt and a rusted roll-up door.
The enforcer kills the engine.
Paco twists fully around, draping both arms over the seat."Let’s see if you’re as hot as Jagger thinks you are," he jerks his chin toward the door.
The enforcer climbs out first, circling around to pull open the rear door.Heat slams into us, thick and wet, carrying the smell of oil and saltwater.
I pull Adena close as we follow Paco toward a side entrance—a dented metal door with a keypad lock.He punches in a code, and the lock clicks open.
Inside, the warehouse is dim and cavernous, the air cooler but stale.Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a flat, bluish light.Wooden crates are stacked along the walls.Forklifts sit idle near a loading dock at the far end.
But in the center of the space, under a cluster of hanging work lights, there's a long folding table covered in equipment.
I recognize some of it.A high-end laser printer with a separate tray for security paper.Holographic overlays in sealed packets.A laminator.Embossing tools.UV pens and inks.Microprinting templates.Blank security paper with watermarks.
And standing behind it, arms crossed, is Marquez.Out of place in his designer suit, Italian handmade shoes, reeking of cologne and cigars.
I've worked for him long enough to know that when he changes plans without warning, the game is shifting.
He doesn't smile.Doesn't move.Just watches as Paco leads us closer.
"Jagger," Marquez says.His voice is low, controlled."Time to see if your word is as good as you say.”
“Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile.Then his gaze shifts fully to Adena and gestures toward the table."Prescription pad.From scratch."He pulls a folded paper from his back pocket and tosses it onto the table."Dr.Landry, Tulane."
She picks up the paper and scans it."How long?"
"Two hours.Clock’s already ticking."
My jaw tightens.Two hours for a full prescription pad—security features, microprinting, watermarks.It's possible, but barely.And she's never worked with this equipment before.
Marquez watches her, then shifts his gaze to me.There's something cold in his eyes.Something that says he's already decided how this ends.
"Dr.Patel will verify it when she's done."
From behind the crates near the back wall, a man steps out—Indian, fifties, wire-rimmed glasses, scrubs under a jacket.His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and he won't look at either of us.
I’ve never met the man, but I don’t need to.I know he's done this before, seen people fail Marquez's tests.
Marquez's pale eyes lock back on Adena."You pass, you move to the next round."His voice drops, flat and final."You fail… you both disappear."
Adena
Marquez is exactly what the DEA warned me about—polished, contained, and mercenary.
One moment he’s smiling threats, the next there’s a gun in his hand and the soft, final click of the safety disengaging.He moves behind Jagger and aims at the back of his skull.
The warehouse vanishes.His voice cuts through it like he's discussing weather—not rage, not even cruelty for its own sake, just pure, cold utility.
"Two hours," he says."You make that pad.It passes inspection.He lives.You fail—we kill him first."
