Her name hit like a jab.He’d seen her twice at the underground clinic he volunteered at.First, a kid with an infected cut.Then a teenage girl, sprained wrist, Keisha’s voice soft, calming her hospital fears.Coastal Futures, Kryvaya Stal’s front for fake adoptions, new identities for kids, was in her files.She was too close.
“This’ll sting,” Sergei said, needle steady despite his churning thoughts.
People who got close vanished.
Buzz, wipe.
Buzz, wipe.
His hands moved while his mind weighed risks.Warning Keisha meant exposure.Silence meant her death.Her dark eyes, fearless at the clinic, flashed in his mind.Courage like that ended in graves.
“Gets people killed,” he muttered under his breath.
Cleo meowed, low.
He finished the vine, seamless with the client’s sleeve.Wiped it, applied ointment, wrapped it.“Keep it covered tonight.Back next week for shading.”
The client nodded, left cash, and exited, bell jingling.Silence settled.
Sergei cleaned up before washing his hands, the mirror showing a stranger.Stubbled jaw, gray eyes too old, black hair too long.His only distinct feature, the numerous tattoos covering his body.
Good.
Strangers were hard to track.
He checked his watch.4:30.Keisha would probably be getting ready to get off work.
He locked the day’s cash in the safe under the floorboards, fingers brushing a notebook—names, dates, Coastal Futures’ movements.Evidence he’d gathered since deserting.Enough to save one social worker, maybe.Not enough to burn Kryvaya Stal without burning himself.
“Hold the fort,” he told Cleo, grabbing his leather jacket.She yawned, fangs glinting.
Kryvaya Stal had eyes everywhere.Clinics.Foster offices.Police.Keisha wouldn’t know who to trust.Wouldn’t trust him, a scarred stranger with an accent.
He pocketed the burner, checked the knife at his ankle, pulled on his jacket.The weight felt right.
“Probably gonna get messy,” he muttered, flipping the sign to CLOSED, lights off.He spotted Cleo padding to her water bowl.
He stepped onto the streets of Little Havana, salsa pulsing from a dive bar, plantains frying nearby.Two blocks east, then north to Kendall.Keisha’s place.
Cars crawled, music spilling from open windows.A bodega owner nodded as Sergei passed by, no words.Miami’s code of see nothing, say nothing, survive.Sergei had lived it five years.Tonight, he’d break it.
Little Havana faded into Kendall’s strip malls, Spanish shifting to English, merengue to hip-hop.Sixteen minutes walking.No tails.The outline of the agency building appeared, and he spotted a bus stop in front of it.
Keisha stood, phone in hand, satchel slung over her shoulder.Dark curls escaped her bun, framing her face as she frowned at her screen.Jeans, blue blouse, sneakers.Practical, but did nothing to hide her curvy figure.Thick thighs and wide hips.Two of his weaknesses that would have him looking at her for a different reason if not for the impending danger.
Sergei slowed, giving her space.
Startling her would ruin this.
“Keisha Crawford.”
She turned, eyes narrowing, recognition sparking.Wariness followed.“You’re the clinic guy.Tattoo artist.”She stepped back.“What’re you doing here?”
“We gotta talk.”His voice stayed low, eyes scanning.Two teens at a store across the road.An old man with a dog.No one else.Yet.
“I don’t think so.”She crossed her arms, chin up.“How do you know my name?How’d you find me?”
“You’re digging into Coastal Futures’ placements.”He kept hands visible.“That’s dangerous.People who get close to them disappear.”
