She’s already walking back toward the exit, all business again when my cell buzzes in my pocket.
The tension that had started to ease slams back into place as I pull it out.I read the message twice, then shove the phone back in my pocket.
I jog to catch up to Adena.
“Marquez has a situation with a dealer.He wants us at Tino’s Bar.”
She goes still.Not long—just a heartbeat—but long enough for me to see the anxiety flicker behind her eyes.“Both of us?”
“Another test.”
She nods once, completely oblivious to how bad this is going to get.
I should warn her.I would if I thought it would help.
But nothing I can say or do will prepare her.
In a few minutes, my new partner is going to meet the version of Jagger Rourke that Marquez carved out of me.
Merciless.
Adena
The ride to Tino’s Bar takes twelve minutes, and every one of them I spend praying for the man in front of me, watching the way he leans into each turn with effortless control, the Ducati responding like an extension of him, even as his posture tells me he’s fighting for control he doesn’t actually have.
When we pull up to a run-down building with a flickering neon sign and bars on the windows, I park closer to him than I did back at the apartment, close enough that when I swing off my bike, I'm within arm's reach.
He's already off his bike, pulling his helmet free.When he looks at me, his expression is serious.
"Stay close, don't talk business, and if things go south, you follow my lead without question."
“Got it.”
His jaw works like he wants to say more, but he just nods and guides me toward the door.
The bar isn’t much of an upgrade from the Rusty Chain.It's filled with the stench of stale beer, cheap perfume, body odor, and decades of cigarette smoke that no amount of scrubbing will ever remove.
The lighting is dim, casting everything in shades of anemic light.A jukebox plays metal in the corner.A handful of regulars hunched over the bar don't look up when we enter.
Paco's waiting in a back booth, the tattooed enforcer beside him.Two other guys flank them—one with a scorpion crawling up his neck, the other wearing a Saints jersey that's seen better days.
Jagger slides into the booth and pulls me in beside him.His thigh presses against mine in the cramped space.
Paco signals an older bartender with a Metallica T-shirt and thinning hair without looking away from us.A moment later, drinks appear—whiskey for Jagger, beer for me that I don’t want.
"So what's the situation?"Jagger picks up his glass like we're here for a social call.
Paco's smile fades.He jerks his chin toward a booth."Luis.Three weeks running, the drop from this location is light."
I follow his gaze.The guy is young—mid-twenties maybe—thin, with nervous hands that keep wiping his jeans.Even from here, I can see the tremor in his fingers.
He knows this isn’t a casual visit.
"How much?"Jagger asks.
"Two, three hundred each time."
"Business slow?"
