Connection: Money to Mitchell ? Lassiter ? ???
Possible heat: Desperation? Fracture in the pipeline?
I added notes faster.I needed to build the plan piece by piece so I wouldn’t slip.
And then, I hesitated.
Killian McKendrick.
What did any of usreallyknow about him? Not much. Not enough. So I pulled up a new tab and typed his name. I added parameters:Killian McKendrick + legal + court record + education + associates + prior employment.
Then further:Killian McKendrick + known associates + law firm + Redcars + McKendrick family.
And finally:Killian McKendrick + criminal defense + Vegas.
The browser started to populate. Slowly at first, as if the system was thinking. I let the searches load and opened another tab, pulling up real estate records.Maybe he owned something. Perhaps he didn’t. Maybe there was nothing there at all. But I had to try.
I stared at the screen as the browser began pinging back hits. Court documents, old law firm bios, social media tags with his name blurred into sports articles from fifteen years ago. Early school years, no family, in care, then Redcars. Then Harvard Law. And a blank space between. At Harvard, a prestigious internship. The missing years. The silence. I bookmarked everything.
When my eyes blurred with exhaustion, I set the laptop aside and stretched. My mind was still a battlefield, but the lists helped. The act of compiling, of noting, of watching… it grounded me.
Tomorrow, I’d start observing The Bonehook. Start watching Killian the way he’d watched me.
Because this time, I wanted to be the one who saw everything first.
EIGHT
Killian
Strobe lighting madeThe Bonehook look sexy in the dark, more than the rat-infested, bloodstained crap that I remembered, but there was nothing sexy about the drugs that management ran out of the back. This was the first address on Robbie’s list—1.2 million in crypto linked to this place, the kind of money that makes owners like Ricardo Price twitchy and sweaty in their designer suits as they scramble to make up losses in their cash laundering and wonder if their boss’s boss was fucking them over.
How did a place like this stand to lose that much money and stay open? How much did Ricardo know about Mitchell’s loss, and was Ricardo doing something to make up the difference in Mitchell’s balance sheet without him knowing? Caleb hadcreated a background that would hold up under scrutiny. According to the new legend, I was Lucas Grant—a high-rolling investor sniffing around for something off-market, something exclusive. A man with tastes leaning toward the extreme. Ricardo didn’t know me, didn’t know Killian either, which was precisely how Caleb had planned it. Clean separation. No shared history. Just a hungry newcomer with enough cash and curiosity to get in the door.
Lucas Grant didn’t look like me. Not really. Caleb had built the identity, but I brought it to life. The clothes were sharp—designer jeans that clung, a shirt unbuttoned low enough to hint but not tell. I kept the stubble thick and the hair artfully messy—effort made to look effortless. Dark glasses hid my eyes, allowing people to project whatever they wanted onto me, and I slumped a little to disguise my height.
Attitude did the rest.
Lucas moved as if he owned the space. Like the world already owed him more than it gave. My gaze was full of contempt, shoulders looser, cocky smirk ready to go. My temporary identity was the kind of guy who didn’t need to ask questions—he expected answers. And if someone didn’t offer them, he made them regret it. That was the vibe. And tonight, that vibe was going to get me in the door.
Caleb had found evidence of cash payments funneled into a holding account, proving Price was doing something to earn money. Was Ricardo running something other than drugs out the back?
Kids maybe?
“Tell the boss Lucas Grant is here,” I told the nearest bouncer.
The guy didn’t move at first. Chewing the inside of his cheek as if he were deciding if I was worth the trouble. Big guy, thick neck, fists like hams. He looked me up and down as if he was trying to place me, then gave a little grunt.
“You got an appointment?”
“He knows what I’m here for.”
He dragged his gaze from my head to my toes, checking for weapons maybe, although I wasn’t hiding anything in this outfit, or maybe he was judging me. He thumbed his radio, murmured something low, then turned slightly, shoulders tight.
