Chapter 17 Chris
Chris
Saturday night in Hollywood is its own particular circle of hell. The Coterie is worse—a massive club in a converted theater. The line wraps around the block, but Tatiana’s name is on a list, and we bypass the crowd like we belong here.
Inside is controlled chaos. Three levels, multiple bars, VIP sections with celebrities and bottle service that costs more than most people’s rent. The music pounds against my ribs, vibrating through the floor and up my spine.
Tatiana appears at my elbow, dressed like she owns the place—short black dress, heels that could be weapons, hair pulled back tight.
She gives me a once-over, and her mouth curves into a satisfied smile. “See? You clean up nice when you’re not dressed like you’re about to serve a warrant.”
I tug at the collar of the black button-down.
Fitted shirt, dark jeans, one button undone at the throat—clothes that cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
The whole ensemble feels like a costume.
Like the persona I played under cover in Mexico—Cal Logan, a memory I prefer to bury. But Cal gets one more night out.
“Stop fidgeting,” she says directly into my ear. “You look good. Own it.”
“I’ll add it to my skill set. Right after ‘small talk’ and ‘relaxing.’“
She laughs. “God help us all.”
She leads me through the crowd past the main dance floor, up a set of stairs I cataloged as an exit route the moment we entered.
The VIP level swallows some of the bass.
Fewer bodies up here—I clock two additional exits without turning my head.
Tatiana claims a corner spot at the back bar and orders vodka for herself and whiskey for me without asking.
“See the booth in the far corner?” She nods across the room. “Blue suit, talking with his hands. That’s Mikhail Volkov.”
Volkov sits on one side of a curved booth, gesturing animatedly while two men face him from the opposite curve. Their backs are to us—dark hair, one set of shoulders broader than the other.
“Volkov moved money for the Corlukas,” Tatiana continues. “Smart enough to survive when Jovan went down. Now he’s freelancing—looking for new clients with deep pockets and dirty cash.”
“And?”
“And he’s been putting out feelers about laundering revenue from Mexico. Specifically, through whoever’s taken over Amador’s old routes.”
Ice forms in my gut, sudden and sharp. “Amador’s routes are dead.”
“Are they?” She takes a sip of her vodka. “Because from what I hear, someone’s been quietly rebuilding them.”
“We’ve been tracking someone,” I say carefully. “But nothing concrete.”
“Rafael Marcano?” She smiles when I don’t answer. “Your agencies are very good at watching the big players. Not so good at noticing when the small ones start working together under new management.”
She continues pointing out players across the room—money men, trafficking coordinators, operational infrastructure. Names, connections, patterns. Good intelligence. McIntyre will be happy.
Then she sets her vodka down. “I told Mikhail I’d bring someone worth meeting. Ready?”
Cal Logan. Import-export, out of Miami. The Agency kept my cover warm after Mexico, gave Cal a history, a paper trail, a plausible new life. I let him settle in. My posture loosens, my jaw unclenches. Names from the old network are just business to Cal.
“Let’s go.”
The booth comes into focus as we cross the room. Volkov’s hands still carving the air. The two men still turned away.
At fifteen feet, the angle shifts.
Vicente Amador. And beside him, Arturo Flores.
My stride doesn’t break. Years of training make sure of that. But everything inside me goes cold and sharp. Vicente’s hand rests on Arturo’s thigh, possessive and public. Arturo leans into Vicente’s space with an ease I’ve never seen from either of them.
Vicente still drags at me like gravity. I’m free of him—extracted, debriefed, reassigned—and I still can’t look away.
Something sick in me needs to prove I can face him and walk away whole.
Prove he didn’t break me. Prove I’m not still the man who let himself be used because he thought it was the price of the mission.
Tatiana glances back at me. Her expression is calculated, watchful. She knew exactly who was in that booth.
You’re not that person anymore.
You’re Cal.
The shift is deliberate. Professional. Cal’s confidence settles into my posture—shoulders loose, jaw easy, smile ready. The rest of it gets buried.
Tatiana reaches the booth first. “Misha.” She leans down, presses cheeks with Volkov, then straightens and gestures toward me. “This is Cal Logan.”
Volkov stands to shake my hand. Shorter than expected—compact build, steady grip, eyes that have outlived more powerful men than him. He holds the handshake a beat longer than necessary.
“Cal.” He weighs the name. “Tatiana says you’re interesting. I don’t meet many interesting people anymore.”
“That’s because you’re spending Saturday nights in nightclubs, Mikhail.” My grin comes easy. “Interesting people are in boardrooms. Or in jail.”
A real laugh. “I like him,” he says to Tatiana. “Sit. Please.”
I slide into the booth. Neither Vicente nor Arturo has spoken. Both of them are watching me.
“As I was saying,” Volkov continues, settling back in, “since Amador relocated his operations, the old routes through Mexico have gone quiet. But the capital behind those routes didn’t disappear.
It’s sitting. Waiting.” He drops his voice beneath the bass.
“What I need is someone who can build new channels without drawing attention.”
“Federal attention,” I say, keeping it light.
“Any attention.” Volkov leans forward. “Quiet money, quiet relationships. Someone already connected on both sides of the border who knows how to keep their mouth shut.”
He’s fishing. Testing. I give him just enough.
“I ran logistics for five years through routes most people didn’t know existed. When things changed hands, I went freelance. Miami, mostly. But the Southwest is where the real money moves.”
Volkov’s eyes cut to Vicente. “Cal Logan.” He says the full name slowly, recognition settling in. “You’re the one who ran logistics for Amador’s operation.”
“Guilty.” I don’t flinch.
“Small world.” Volkov looks between us. “And you two just happen to be in the same nightclub tonight?”
Vicente speaks for the first time. “LA is a small town when you run in certain circles.” His voice is warm, unhurried.
His eyes do a slow sweep from my face down to the open collar, the fitted shirt, the expensive jeans.
His eyebrow lifts—amused, knowing, like he’s cataloging the differences between this version of me and the one he used to undress.
“I was wondering when we’d cross paths again. ”
My skin prickles under the scrutiny. Too familiar. Too much like the way he used to look at me before he’d decide exactly how the night would go.
“I outgrew Mexico,” Vicente continues, addressing Volkov but watching me. “Cal went his way. I went mine.”
“You got out by the skin of your teeth, from what I heard.” Volkov raises his glass. “Would’ve been in a Mexican federal prison if you’d stayed another week. But not before you and Arturo dealt with the man who sold you out.”
A shadow crosses Vicente’s face. “Some debts require personal attention.”
“And now look at you.” Volkov gestures between Vicente and Arturo. “With Arturo’s international network, you’ve upgraded. Half the Pacific Rim, if the rumors are right.”
Arturo’s watching me with those pale eyes that miss nothing. “Rumors are usually wrong. But not always.”
Intel. Real, operational intel, landing in my lap while the man who owned me for five years sits across the booth. I file every word.
“Cal was always good at reading a room,” Vicente says. His gaze drops to my glass—the whiskey Tatiana ordered that I haven’t touched. “At least your taste in drinks hasn’t changed.”
He knows my preferences, my habits. Every detail from five years as his property.
Volkov’s phone buzzes. He checks it, stands. “Forgive me—I see someone I need to speak with.” He clasps my hand again, grip lingering. “Cal. I think we should talk again. Properly. Without the music.”
“Name the place.”
Then Volkov’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.
Tatiana rises a moment later. “I’ll make sure Misha stays warm.” She gives me a look that says don’t do anything stupid. Then she’s gone too.
Leaving me alone in the booth with Vicente and Arturo.
Cal’s smile dissolves. Without an audience, I can’t hold the mask.
“You look well,” I say. First genuine words since I sat down. It’s true—they both do. Relaxed in a way I’ve never seen from either of them.
“Honesty suits us,” Arturo says simply, his hand finding Vicente’s on the table.
“Even under house arrest,” Vicente adds, not pulling away from the touch. “We know exactly where we stand. No more hiding.”
They’re sitting in public, touching casually, making no effort to conceal what they are to each other.
I heard enough of Vicente’s drunk confessions to know what Arturo put him through, how he claimed to hate him for it.
But hate is just the other side of the same coin. Now they’re just here. Together.
My chest constricts. I was the stand-in for this. The body Vicente kept warm while he pined for the real thing. I know that. Knew it then, too. It doesn’t stop the sting.
“Your handlers know you’re here?”
I’ve already clocked the two men at the bar who haven’t ordered a drink or looked at anyone but us. Private security—not government. Their own hires.
“Of course.” Arturo’s voice is mild. “We’re model citizens now. Therapy sessions, regular check-ins, full cooperation with our debrief schedule.”
Therapy sessions. With Nina.
The micro-expression that crosses my face can’t be more than a twitch, but Vicente catches it.
“Dr. Palmer is very professional,” he says carefully. “Very insightful.”
The words are neutral. The intent isn’t.
“She’s good at what she does,” I manage.
“Yes.” Vicente’s watching me closely now. “Though I imagine it must be difficult. Maintaining professional boundaries when the personal stakes are so high.”
“What are you talking about?”
Vicente’s smile turns predatory. “Come now, Cal. A man with your particular entanglements, operating this close to an active case?” He pauses. “I wonder how much your chain of command actually knows about your situation.”
My jaw tightens. That’s all he needs.
“I didn’t think so.” He sits back. “Secrets make people manageable.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“The point,” Arturo says, “is that everyone uses everyone. The agencies use us for intelligence. We use them for protection. They trust you without knowing how compromised you really are. You use your position to stay close to people you care about.”
“And everyone pretends not to notice the conflicts of interest,” I say.
“Exactly.” Vicente raises his glass. “To mutual exploitation.”
I don’t drink to that.
“She doesn’t know, does she?” Vicente says suddenly. “About your history with this operation. With me.”
My silence is answer enough.
“Interesting.” He exchanges a look with Arturo. “Secrets have a way of surfacing, Chris. Especially in therapeutic settings. Should I be concerned about what might come up in our sessions?”
The threat lands clean. If I make things difficult for them, they could make things very difficult for Nina. And for me.
“No,” I say. “You shouldn’t be concerned.”
“Good.” He stands, and Arturo follows. Vicente pauses, leans down just close enough that I can smell his cologne—the same one he wore in Mexico. His voice drops low, intimate. “The clothes are a nice touch, by the way. Very much like the boy I met all those years ago. Before I broke you.”
My hands curl into fists under the table, but I keep my expression neutral.
“Enjoy your evening, Chris. And do be careful. Nightclubs can be dangerous places. You never know who you might run into.”
They leave me sitting there with an untouched whiskey and adrenaline flooding my system, fight-or-flight response with nowhere to go.
Tatiana reappears as soon as they’re gone, sliding into the spot Volkov vacated.
“Well,” she says. “That looked like more than old business.”
“We should go.”
She studies me for a moment—whatever she sees makes her drop the teasing. “Fine. But you’re buying me a drink somewhere quieter. And tomorrow you’re going to tell me whether that encounter just helped us or hurt us.”
“It helped.” I’m not sure that’s true, but Cal would say it with confidence, so I do.
“Then you’re buying me two drinks.”
Sunday morning comes too early and too bright. I’m nursing a hangover and coffee when my phone rings.
Callie.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to sound less destroyed than I feel.
“Chris! I heard you’re in LA.”
“Yeah, work thing.”
“Are you staying through Wednesday? Mason’s doing his weekly barbecue. You should come.”
The invitation Nina already extended, now reinforced by family obligation. No way to avoid it now.
“I’ll have to check my schedule—”
“Oh please. Mason already told me you’re clear Wednesday evening.” Her voice carries that particular Callie smugness when she’s caught me in something. “Nice try, though.”
Knowing Mason, he probably mentioned it casually, like operational security doesn’t exist in their marriage.
“That’s classified information,” I say, but there’s no heat in it.
“Then classify yourself as showing up. Six o’clock. And Chris? Don’t bring anything except yourself. Mason always makes too much food anyway.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I’m not Mom.”
“You sound more like her every day.”
“That’s terrifying.” A pause, then softer, “Besides, Zoey misses her Uncle Chris. She’s been practicing saying your name. It comes out like ‘Kiss.’“
She’s not playing fair, but she never has.
“Fine. Six o’clock.”
“Good. It’ll be nice to have everyone together again.”
Everyone. Which means Nina. And now Wyatt.
“Yeah,” I say. “Nice.”
She chatters for a few more minutes about Zoey’s new words and plans for the house Mason’s building them before hanging up with a cheerful “See you Wednesday!”
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling.
Wednesday. The barbecue where I’ll have to face Nina and Wyatt, pretend I haven’t been stalking her all week, pretend I’m fine when I haven’t been fine since I left her bed.
My phone buzzes.
TATIANA: Check your email. Early Christmas present.
I open my secure account. She’s sent an encrypted file—names, dates, financial records. A comprehensive breakdown of the emerging Serbian power structure, including connections to Mexican trafficking routes.
It’s exactly what McIntyre wanted. More than enough to keep me on the case.
I should feel relief. Instead, I just feel tired.
CHRIS: This is solid. How?
TATIANA: Told you I’d deliver. You’re not the only one with something to prove.
Three days until Wednesday.
I close my eyes and try not to think about how much can go wrong in three days.