"How'd we know him?"
"You knew him from before.I met him through you.Mutual friend, old crew."
"Last time we visited?"
Ha!
“No idea when you visited last, Ghost.This is my first visit since the funeral.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods."Good.If anyone asks—and someone will if we’re followed—you don't hesitate.You don't look at me for confirmation.You know Tommy.You miss him.He's part of our history."
"Got it."
The breeze shifts, rattling the branches overhead.Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm goes off, then stops.
Jagger glances back toward the street, scanning.
"Tomorrow, when you meet Marquez," he says quietly, "you need to be the best he's seen.Because if you're not, we've already lost."
The weight of it settles between us.Three years.Hundreds of lives.One chance.
Delilah.
"I’ll bring it home," I say.
His reply causes a trickle of anxiety to spread through my body."You better, or it’ll be us buried in this cemetery."
Three
Jagger
At six, I give up trying to sleep, swing my legs off the couch, and stumble into the bathroom and blast the shower.
Under the water jets, I run through the tactical realities.Marquez will have at least two men in the room.The warehouse has limited exits.If he doesn't like what he sees, we don't just walk out—he'll want to know why I brought her, who she really works for, and whether I'm compromised.And I won't be able to protect her without blowing three years of cover.
There’s a reason I stay detached.Emotions get people killed.I remind myself of that twice before shutting off the water.
When I’m done, I towel off and pull on yesterday’s jeans and a T-shirt.
The bedroom door’s still mostly closed when I step out—like she actually managed to sleep.
I move to the kitchenette and start the coffee, anything to drown out the restlessness crawling under my skin.
Outside, the Quarter groans awake—delivery trucks grinding gears, an argument in rapid Spanish, glass bottles clattering into a bin.
The coffee machine gurgles and splutters, filling the same chipped cup I used last night.
From inside the bedroom, the bedsprings creak.I pour another cup and carry both toward the bedroom.
When I reach the door, I stop.There's just enough of a crack to see her—on her knees in the middle of the worn hardwood floor, black silk robe slipping off one shoulder, hands clasped, eyes shut, lips moving without sound.
Part of me wants to tell her prayers won't stop a bullet.But another part—the part I've buried deep—envies that kind of faith.
I back up and clear my throat, giving her a chance to finish.
She appears a moment later, sleepy-eyed, and takes the coffee without hesitation."Breakfast?"
I stare at her.She just prayed like she was heading into battle, and now she wantsfood?
