The ADA’s office is my next stop. Need to make sure they understand the game—push for high bail without making it obvious the fix is in. The meeting takes an hour of careful dancing around what we both know is happening.
Tatiana’s play with Vera just made the Volkov file urgent. I’ve had analysts building a profile on Mikhail since that night at the club. Standard due diligence. But now his daughter’s in county and my asset broke someone’s arm to get close to her. I need Mason’s local intel to fill in the gaps.
Mason’s auto shop has both bay doors open, letting in morning air that does nothing for the smell of motor oil and welding flux. A car sits on the lift. A ‘67 Impala, from what I can tell through the primer and rust. No wheels, engine bay empty, quarter panels removed. More skeleton than vehicle at this point.
He’s at the workbench, sorting through a box of wiring harnesses.
“Didn’t expect to see you today,” Mason says, looking up from the wiring. “Everything okay?”
I lean against the workbench. “The Volkov profile I had the analysts pull—you get a chance to look at it?”
“The Russian money guy?” Mason sets down a wiring harness, wipes his hands on a rag. “Yeah, I added some local color. Pulled it up this morning, actually.”
Before I can respond, movement catches my eye—someone passing the windows of the loft apartment that overlooks the shop. A moment later, the door opens onto the catwalk landing. Wyatt appears, hair still damp from a shower, pulling on a fresh shirt. He stops at the railing, looking down at us.
We both freeze.
“Chris.” He seems as surprised as I am. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
Wyatt’s shirt clings slightly to his shoulders where the water hasn’t dried yet. I watched those shoulders this morning, the flex of muscle as he fucked Nina. Heard the filth that came out of his mouth when he was inside her. Now he’s here, fresh from the shower, looking at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m glad to see him.
I am.
“Wyatt’s staying in my loft,” Mason says, watching us both. “Good to see you two in the same room without throwing punches. Was getting worried after last night.”
Wyatt’s mouth quirks. “We worked it out.”
“I can see that.” Mason’s tone is knowing. “Nina know you’re both here?”
“She’s in session,” Wyatt says, coming down the stairs fully, directing this at me. “Started about twenty minutes ago.”
Twenty minutes. So they had the morning together while I was playing lawyer for Tatiana. Wyatt’s eyes meet mine. We both know what happened last night. What it meant. What it changes.
“Volkov,” I say, turning back to Mason. “What do you have on him?”
But I’m tracking Wyatt’s movement through the space—past the Impala skeleton on the lift, toward the corner where Mason has a makeshift break area. Mini fridge, microwave on a metal shelf, coffee maker that’s too shiny for the space it sits in. Wyatt finds the coffee easily enough, then glances around for mugs. Mason tips his head toward a cabinet without breaking stride in his explanation.
Mason pulls up files on his tablet. “Volkov’s been busy lately. Meeting with Dragonov’s people three times this week alone.”
Wyatt appears at my elbow, holds out a mug of steaming black coffee. The smell hits me—rich, dark, nothing like what I’d expect garage coffee to taste like. Mason and Maddox clearly don’t skimp on the important things.
“You tracking him?” Wyatt asks.
“Not actively. But his name keeps coming up in chatter.” Mason taps the screen. “He’s been Dragonov’s first choice for West Coast operations since the Corluka situation went sideways.”
I keep my expression neutral. Can’t mention that Tatiana’s using his daughter to get close. “What else do you have on him?”
Mason sets down the tablet, that particular stillness that means he’s accessing his mental files. “Mikhail Volkov. Zavala had a whole section on him. Money man for the Corlukas originally, but smart enough to keep his options open. Has a daughter—Vera, early twenties. Wild child, gets into trouble daddy has to clean up.”
Wyatt and I exchange a quick glance. Zavala—the Mexico City cartel boss whose intel Mason spent three years gathering. Wyatt was his handler during that op. I knew Zavala from the other side, through Amador’s organization. Different perspectives on the same player. Delgado eventually wiped him out before Operation Broken Heart concluded, but the intelligence Zavala compiled before his death is still proving useful.
“Here’s the interesting part,” Mason continues. “Zavala noted that Volkov had a side arrangement with someone close to the Amador organization. An ally, not inner circle. Small monthly payments going back at least a couple years. Steady. Predictable.”
“Laundering,” I say.
“Yeah. But then the payments changed.” Mason pulls up a timeline on his tablet. “By June, right before Zavala got killed, they’d increased. Significantly. Like whoever was making those payments suddenly had a lot more cash flow to clean.”
“How much more?” Wyatt asks.
