“Chris—”
“A few days. Please. Let me work this, let me feel useful, and then I’ll—” I stop. What? Come home? Face what I did? I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
“A few days,” Nina repeats. “And you’ll check in. Every day. No losing yourself in the field like you don’t have people who need to know you’re alive.”
I don’t miss the thread of desperation in her tone, reminding me of how she had to cope believing I was dead for years before I returned. “Okay.”
“And Chris?” Her voice softens. “I love you. Whatever happened Thursday night, whatever you became, whatever you’re afraid of, I love you. That hasn’t changed. It’s not going to.”
I close my eyes against the burn. “I love you too. I just don’t know if that’s enough.”
“Let us decide that,” she says. “When you’re ready.”
After she hangs up, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the phone in my hands for a long time.
I wait until after dark to retrieve clothes from my hotel.
Paranoia, maybe. But if anyone followed me from Nina’s house Thursday night, my place is the obvious first stop. I circle the block twice, check for unfamiliar vehicles, watch the windows for movement. Nothing. Either I’m clear or whoever’s watching is better than me.
Inside, I pack light. Enough for a few days. The place feels foreign, like it belongs to someone I used to be.
Maybe it does.
46
Chris
Saturday night, Tatiana and I work a club in K-Town where she has contacts adjacent to Yakuza circles. The Serbian consolidation has created strange bedfellows. Old enemies finding common ground in mutual opportunity.
As Cal Logan, I’m a ghost from Vicente’s operation. Not someone anyone in LA would recognize on sight—I’ve been in Mexico for eight years. But a name that carries weight with the right people. The ones who move between organizations. The ones who remember what Amador’s network used to be.
Through careful conversation and strategically placed cash, we piece together more of the picture. The Haruki-kai haven’t forgotten what Vicente did to their oyabun: the elaborate tattoos, carefully removed and preserved. Art for his walls. A message to anyone who thought they could touch him.
They’ve partnered with what’s left of Dragonov’s network. The plan is to share the spoils once Vicente and Arturo are eliminated. Our intel confirms the connection, financial trails linking the two organizations.
The assassin is ex-Mossad. A name surfaces: Ari Kedmi. The Agency has a file. A mercenary with no organizational loyalty, happy to take anyone’s money as long as the price is right. Professional. Efficient. Currently in Los Angeles.
But Rafael Marcano remains a question mark. His name keeps appearing in the periphery, but nothing ties him to the assassination plot. Different circles. Different objectives. It makes no sense.
Sunday, I text Nina as promised.
CHRIS: Following leads. Will check in tomorrow.
Her response is equally brief:
NINA: Be careful. We’re here when you’re ready.
I don’t text Wyatt. I’m not ready for that conversation, not even through a screen.
Monday morning, Tatiana meets me at a diner in Boyle Heights with a folder.
“Got something on Rafael,” she says, sliding it across the table. “Not much, but it’s a start. My contact at the port authority pulled these from security footage. Man matching Rafael’s general description has been spotted at multiple locations connected to Amador’s old shipping routes.”
I flip through the printouts. Grainy images, mostly. A figure in a dark coat, never facing the camera directly. Could be anyone.
“This isn’t enough.”
“I know. But I’ve got another source who claims to have better photos. Meeting him tonight.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “In the meantime, I did some digging on the aliases Rafael’s been using. He’s got at least three that we know of. Daniel Cruz. Mateo Salas. And—” She pauses. “Adán Pareto.”
