Roman gave a low chuckle as we walked toward the rear exit together.
“Good. Assholes like that deserve consequences.”
He pushed the heavy steel door open.
We stepped out into the alley.
Neon from the club’s signage spilled across wet pavement — purple and crimson reflections shimmering in shallow puddles.
The air smelled like spilled liquor, trash, and warm asphalt.
We moved like professionals who belonged there.
Brisk. Unbothered.
We crossed the alley toward the side street where our vehicle was parked.
“Were you able to put a tracker on him?” Roman asked quietly.
His voice lowered automatically in public spaces.
“Too early,” I answered. “If he finds it, the whole operation collapses.”
I glanced at him briefly.
“Men like that don’t survive by being careless. His security detail could be watching every move I make right now.”
He nodded.
He understood counter-surveillance as well as I did.
We reached the black sedan. Unmarked.
Unregistered to anything traceable to the Bureau.
Roman slid into the driver’s seat.
I took shotgun.
The doors closed with soft thuds. Seatbelt clicked.
The engine started — smooth and quiet.
The dashboard illuminated in a soft blue glow.
“What if we never get this close again?” Roman asked as he adjusted the mirrors.
His eyes met mine briefly. “Men like Baranov are ghosts.”
He pulled the car away from the curb. Merged into late-night traffic.
Palm trees flashed past under sodium streetlights.
“Tonight might’ve been our only window.”
I leaned back slightly in my seat.
Letting the strategy unfold in my mind.
