The weapons trained on me don’t matter.Everyone in the room knows my weapon is bigger.
Crowe studies my face, my inked smile, and the open vest.He swallows and lowers himself back into the chair.
I clock the one man at the bar who doesn’t move.He chews a toothpick like it owes him money.A wicked scar divides his face, and his eyes stay with me.No flinch.No rush.Just watching and measuring.
He takes his time standing, gives me a look that promises it won’t be the last, and follows the others out.As he passes through the door, the creepy smile he flings over his shoulder rivals mine.
I shake it off and cross the room.
Every step pulls a dozen guns with me, muzzles tracking, fingers on triggers, and breaths held.
I don’t rush.Rushing looks nervous.
At Crowe’s table, I hook a chair with my boot, drag it out slow enough to be annoying, and sit with a heavy sigh.
Up close, he’s exactly what the world pays for and consumes.Mid-sixties, physically fit in the curated way money buys, silver threaded neatly through dark hair.His smile is practiced, meant to reassure donors, clients, and anyone young enough to mistake charisma for kindness.
But his eyes won’t settle.They dart to the vest, to my hands, to the exits that won’t help him.
“The guns are making me twitchy.”I wriggle my thumb over the switch near my palm, close enough to be suggestive.
A ripple moves through the guards.
Crowe lifts one hand, palm down.
They pull back a step.Then another.Still close.Still armed.But no longer breathing down my neck.
Better.
“Wow.”I lean forward, elbows on the table, grin stretching psycho-wide.“I can’t believe this is happening.”
Crowe blinks.
“I mean… You,” I gush, pitching it high and bright, all cracked enthusiasm.“I’ve never met a famous person.This is insane.Can we take a selfie?Because, you know, if there’s no photo, it never happened.”
“What?”He stares at me like I just tripped from borderline to completely off-the-rails.
“Shit.”I pat my nonexistent pockets, frown, and sigh dramatically.“I don’t have my phone.Typical.Every time something epic happens.”
He watches me as if trying to determine if my insanity is real or strategic.Unease leaks through the polish.Not panic, but his calculating demeanor is definitely going fuzzy at the edges.He’s used to owning rooms.And now?He knows the room no longer belongs to him.
“You made your point.”His voice is smooth, honed to sell retreats and nonconsent in the same breath.“Let’s lower the theatrics.”
“You first.”
For a half second, the smile he’s famous for wobbles.
Good.Now he’s listening.
I lean in, letting the manic edge drain away.I’m done performing.
“Let’s chat about Jag Rath.”I drop the temperature in my tone, cold as a polar night.“You have him in a room under us.Concrete.No windows.”
Crowe’s eyes flick down, then back to me.Tiny tell.Not enough to give him away in court.But plenty for me.
“I’m not here to negotiate philosophy.”I drum my ringed fingers on the table.“You’re going to take me to him.I’m going to collect what I came for.Then I’ll walk out the same door I came in.No sirens.No big boom.”
I don’t say her name.I won’t.
