An awkward silence descends between us, and I find myself falling into an old habit—staring anywhere but his eyes.
Then, mercifully, he lets out a low chuckle. “So that’s how it is. Fine. I’ll be back—bigger and better, Agent Rossi.” Another wink before he slips back into his office, shutting the door behind him.
Whew. Thank goodness. Crisis averted.
I make a beeline for the elevators, walking briskly past the rest of the offices and the maze of cubicles between me and my escape route. Nobody else better fucking stop me. I throw on what Katie calls mydon’t–you–fucking–dare–talk–to–meresting bitch face, hoping it sends a clear enough message.
It does.
I slip into the elevator without another soul daring to approach me.
Since I’m on top of the Nightshades case and have it mostly under control, Katie got assigned another mission in New Jersey and left in the early hours of this morning. That means I’m handling this new case on my own.
My first step is obvious: hit the streets and gather intelligence, since this flimsy sheet of paper Greg handed me contains about as much useful information as a fortune cookie. I lift it to my face, squinting at it with a frown as the elevator doors slide open.
I fold it carefully and tuck it into the pocket of my leather jacket—which I never had the chance to take off while up there. My mind is already racing with possible strategies as I stride to my bike and pull my helmet on.
Oddly enough, I’m grateful Greg called this morning and yanked me out of bed. Worrying about what he wanted—and how pissed he’d be over my failure with Jason—kept my brain from circling back to the one thing I didn’t want to think about: Rafael.
Rafael, smiling like an idiot with a massive bouquet of roses in his arms.
Who were they for?
Not me. That much was clear when his smile vanished and his brows drew together the second he saw me.
I shake my head hard as I kickstart the ignition.Focus.I don’t care who they were for.I don’t.
I have a mission, and it’s to find whoever’s running this illicit meds operation—not to obsess over Rafael’s love life. He’s nothing to me. I don’t care who he’s seeing. I really don’t.
I rev the engine with more aggression than necessary, the motorcycle growling beneath me like it shares my frustration. I need leads. I need info. If I want to avoid another failure, I have to get movingnow. The faster I immerse myself in work, the better.
The most effective way to extract information from street sources is to blend in. These people are fiercely loyal to their circles, and if they even sniff law enforcement, they clam up.
So I head home first to change into something more appropriate.
I strip off my agency clothes and pull on a pair of dark jeans and a grey sweatshirt, keeping it super casual with my hair in a messy bun. Then I take off all my jewelry and conceal my knives in my boots. No gun this time—word on the street is, they can somehow detect firearms from a mile away. Bringing one to their turf without backup would be suicidal.
Still, I need leads, and that means hitting the old spots.
It’s been years since I lived in NYC, but I didn’t expect things to have changedthismuch. I visit the usual haunts where people used to sell or hoard information, but the areas have all been refurbished into townhouses, which means my old contacts are long gone—assuming they're even still alive. It’s been a decade, after all. A lot can happen in ten years.
That should have been my first warning that this wasn’t going to be as simple as I thought.
After nearly seven exhausting hours of combing Manhattan,casually questioning homeless folks, I’m finally pointed in a direction that might be worthwhile.
But I’m starving by then, so I swing by the nearest McDonald’s on my way to the club I was told to check out: The Echo. Supposedly, the bartender there, Eric, is a wealth of knowledge and can lead me to who I need. I linger over my meal, savoring the fries and doing a bit of people-watching to kill time until his shift starts.
Afterwards, I head out and take a leisurely one-mile stroll to The Echo. I left my bike at home, not wanting anything that could be traced back to me while on this mission. I could easily have taken a cab, sure, but I have the time to burn anyway.
I reach the club at 8:15 PM and smile with satisfaction. Perfect timing. Eric’s shift should have started by now. I hang back for a moment, studying the bouncers and the people they allow in—mostly young women with skimpy outfits. Of course.
I glance down at myself with a sigh. Not exactly club-ready.
I pull my hair out of its bun, finger-comb it until it falls down my back in some kind of passable wave, and tug the neckline of my sweatshirt to the side, exposing one shoulder. Then I strut towards the entrance like I belong.
The bouncers give me a once-over and exchange glances. Shit. I didn’t think of a backup plan. If this doesn’t work, I’m back at square one with nothing to show for a day’s work but blistered feet. But then—yesss—the rope lifts, and I’m waved in. Dizzying relief washes over me. I flash one of the bouncers a saucy wink as I walk past him, and the tips of his ears turn bright red.
Inside, the club is loud and pulsing with music. I tug my sweatshirt back into place and scan the densely packed space. There are three bars, each manned by two bartenders. All of them are busy, and still, there are lines. It’sthatcrowded.
