“Not like this. He’s holding meetings. Real ones. With the Koreans. Italians. Even the fucking Albanians. Word is, they all sat down last week at that old steakhouse off Eastern.”
I glance over.
Boris shrugs. “Nobody’s saying it out loud, but they’re nervous. Not about him. About you.”
Silence.
Then—
Boris taps again on his laptop. His voice shifts.
“Dave just texted her.”
I turn. Walk over.
“Message is short. Just a time and a location. But it’s her.”
My pulse tightens.
“She’s going.”
I grab my coat.
Boris grins around his drink. “So, what’s the plan?”
I holster my weapon. Pocket the fob.
“Time to follow the rabbit,” I say.
“Hell, yeah,” he mutters, already reaching for his gear. “Let’s go save your civilian, boss. Maybe we’ll even make it home without another body in the trunk.”
I don’t answer.
But my hand’s already on the door.
16
Mary
The Uber smells like gym socks left in a hot car; probably just me. The driver’s got one AirPod in, arguing with a podcast about aliens or crypto or both. I don’t care. I’m too busy counting my regrets.
Regret #1:Agreeing to meet Dave like I’m not one dumb decision away from becoming a cautionary tale.
Regret #2:Thinking that bringing the documents was the responsible thing to do. Like responsible people meet their shady bosses at a half-dead Vegas laundromat.
Regret #3:Wearing white in the heat like I don’t hate myself.
I’m sweating through my blouse before we even hit Twain. The sky’s not fully awake yet, but the heat already feels personal. Like it knows I’m guilty.
And I’m late because I spent ten minutes juststaringat Dave’s text.Meet me at the old laundromat on Twain. 7 AM. Need to talk.Like it was a bomb I could defuse by glaring.
No time to bus, so I shelled out $12 for this ride. That makesRegret #4.
The Uber pulls into a cracked lot, gravel crunching like bones under tires. The laundromat looks exactly how you’d picture a murder scene from a low-budget indie film. Faded brick. Neon sign that saysWA_ _in flickering pink. Windows boarded. Dumpster overflowing. One twitchy streetlight doing its best impression of a seizure.
“Ain’t nobody out here. Place looks like where people go to get ghosted—permanently.” The driver glances at the building, then at me in the rearview. “You sure this is it?”
He’s squinting now. One hand still on the wheel, the other scratching at a patchy beard like he’s debating calling someone about this later.
