“It’s suicide.”
“I’m kind of known for that.”
Mikhail’s grin widens.
Monty’s going to have feelings.Oh, well.He can yell later.I’m moving now.
The van smells like warm metal, coffee gone cold, and nerves that have been burning for two straight days.
We’re parked a block from Adrian Crowe’s nightclub.The building matches the description in Jag’s notes with its black glass, concrete, and high-end security.A haven for predators hiding behind refinement and exclusivity.
Los Angeles pulses around us, traffic and bass and oblivious lives sliding past the curb.
Leo and Frankie stayed on the island, safe and furious, pretending they’re not counting seconds.She hugged me before I left, while Leo spat all the reasons he hates my plan.
Add it to the pile.
The arguments started the moment I said the plan out loud.They didn’t stop on the flight from Sitka to Los Angeles.Monty flew the jet himself, all red-faced and yelling fury.
Leo called my plan aggressively dumb.Kody called it batshit.All of them called it a closed-casket suicide run.
And here we are.
Inside the van, Monty sits in the driver’s seat, hands strangling the wheel.Beside him, Kody glares out the windshield, lost to the violence in his head.
In the back, Mikhail hunches over a laptop, calm as a Russian mobster, and feeds live data into my skull through an undetectable earpiece.
Oliver moves around me, tightening the strap on my vest, like he’s adjusting a tie before dinner.
“This will work,” he says loud enough for Monty and Kody to hear.
“Fuck off, Oliver.”Monty smacks the steering wheel.“The fact that you’re going along with this bullshit, back-of-the-napkin plan makes me question your reputation.”
“Firstly, it’s a back-of-the-sketchbook plan.”I uncap a sharpie and find my reflection in the rear window.“And secondly, you’re going along with it, too.”
“Uncheerfully,” he grumbles.
“Sounds like you need to exfoliate.Something extra abrasive for those grumpy layers.Maybe concrete.”I set the marker to my face and start drawing.
The plan is simple in the way bad ideas always are.
I’ll walk through the front door of the nightclub and ask for Adrian Crowe.I’ll make sure he understands that if Jag and Dove don’t come out breathing, the building won’t stay standing.And neither will I.
Because I have one of Oliver’s homemade specials strapped to my chest.
The bomb sits flat against my breastbone under the vest.No wires hanging out or blinking lights.
It’s a seamless design.No fumbling, second-guessing, or chance that someone can take it and use it against me.If it blows, it will be because I chose to hit the switch.
I don’t plan to use it.That’s the point.But every person who sees me has to believe I will.They need to believe I’m unstable enough to take myself out and everyone within reach, including the two people I’m here to collect.I need them to believe I don’t give a fuck about Jag and Dove.
They can’t see my attachment or smell my devotion.They can’t even suspect it.They need to look at me and see a violent, unhinged mental patient, one that’s scarier than them.
That belief will open doors.
In and out.
Easy peasy.
