TATIANA: Good. Try to look like you’re having fun. I know that’s difficult for you.
I don’t respond to that.
17
Chris
Saturday night in Hollywood is its own particular circle of hell. The Coterie is worse—a massive club in a converted theater. The line wraps around the block, but Tatiana’s name is on a list, and we bypass the crowd like we belong here.
Inside is controlled chaos. Three levels, multiple bars, VIP sections with celebrities and bottle service that costs more than most people’s rent. The music pounds against my ribs, vibrating through the floor and up my spine.
Tatiana appears at my elbow, dressed like she owns the place—short black dress, heels that could be weapons, hair pulled back tight.
She gives me a once-over, and her mouth curves into a satisfied smile. “See? You clean up nice when you’re not dressed like you’re about to serve a warrant.”
I tug at the collar of the black button-down. Fitted shirt, dark jeans, one button undone at the throat—clothes that cost more than my monthly grocery budget. The whole ensemble feels like a costume. Like the persona I played under cover in Mexico—Cal Logan, a memory I prefer to bury. But Cal gets one more night out.
“Stop fidgeting,” she says directly into my ear. “You look good. Own it.”
“I’ll add it to my skill set. Right after ‘small talk’ and ‘relaxing.’“
She laughs. “God help us all.”
She leads me through the crowd past the main dance floor, up a set of stairs I cataloged as an exit route the moment we entered. The VIP level swallows some of the bass. Fewer bodies up here—I clock two additional exits without turning my head. Tatiana claims a corner spot at the back bar and orders vodka for herself and whiskey for me without asking.
“See the booth in the far corner?” She nods across the room. “Blue suit, talking with his hands. That’s Mikhail Volkov.”
Volkov sits on one side of a curved booth, gesturing animatedly while two men face him from the opposite curve. Their backs are to us—dark hair, one set of shoulders broader than the other.
“Volkov moved money for the Corlukas,” Tatiana continues. “Smart enough to survive when Jovan went down. Now he’s freelancing—looking for new clients with deep pockets and dirty cash.”
“And?”
“And he’s been putting out feelers about laundering revenue from Mexico. Specifically, through whoever’s taken over Amador’s old routes.”
Ice forms in my gut, sudden and sharp. “Amador’s routes are dead.”
“Are they?” She takes a sip of her vodka. “Because from what I hear, someone’s been quietly rebuilding them.”
“We’ve been tracking someone,” I say carefully. “But nothing concrete.”
“Rafael Marcano?” She smiles when I don’t answer. “Your agencies are very good at watching the big players. Not so good at noticing when the small ones start working together under new management.”
She continues pointing out players across the room—money men, trafficking coordinators, operational infrastructure. Names, connections, patterns. Good intelligence. McIntyre will be happy.
Then she sets her vodka down. “I told Mikhail I’d bring someone worth meeting. Ready?”
Cal Logan. Import-export, out of Miami. The Agency kept my cover warm after Mexico, gave Cal a history, a paper trail, a plausible new life. I let him settle in. My posture loosens, my jaw unclenches. Names from the old network are just business to Cal.
“Let’s go.”
The booth comes into focus as we cross the room. Volkov’s hands still carving the air. The two men still turned away.
At fifteen feet, the angle shifts.
Vicente Amador. And beside him, Arturo Flores.
My stride doesn’t break. Years of training make sure of that. But everything inside me goes cold and sharp. Vicente’s hand rests on Arturo’s thigh, possessive and public. Arturo leans into Vicente’s space with an ease I’ve never seen from either of them.
