Chapter 55
The van smells like warm metal, coffee gone cold, and nerves that have been burning for two straight days.
We’re parked a block from Adrian Crowe’s nightclub. The building matches the description in Jag’s notes with its black glass, concrete, and high-end security. A haven for predators hiding behind refinement and exclusivity.
Los Angeles pulses around us, traffic and bass and oblivious lives sliding past the curb.
Leo and Frankie stayed on the island, safe and furious, pretending they’re not counting seconds. She hugged me before I left, while Leo spat all the reasons he hates my plan.
Add it to the pile.
The arguments started the moment I said the plan out loud. They didn’t stop on the flight from Sitka to Los Angeles. Monty flew the jet himself, all red-faced and yelling fury.
Leo called my plan aggressively dumb. Kody called it batshit. All of them called it a closed-casket suicide run.
And here we are.
Inside the van, Monty sits in the driver’s seat, hands strangling the wheel. Beside him, Kody glares out the windshield, lost to the violence in his head.
In the back, Mikhail hunches over a laptop, calm as a Russian mobster, and feeds live data into my skull through an undetectable earpiece.
Oliver moves around me, tightening the strap on my vest, like he’s adjusting a tie before dinner.
“This will work,” he says loud enough for Monty and Kody to hear.
“Fuck off, Oliver.” Monty smacks the steering wheel. “The fact that you’re going along with this bullshit, back-of-the-napkin plan makes me question your reputation.”
“Firstly, it’s a back-of-the-sketchbook plan.” I uncap a sharpie and find my reflection in the rear window. “And secondly, you’re going along with it, too.”
“Uncheerfully,” he grumbles.
“Sounds like you need to exfoliate. Something extra abrasive for those grumpy layers. Maybe concrete.” I set the marker to my face and start drawing.
The plan is simple in the way bad ideas always are.
I’ll walk through the front door of the nightclub and ask for Adrian Crowe. I’ll make sure he understands that if Jag and Dove don’t come out breathing, the building won’t stay standing. And neither will I.
Because I have one of Oliver’s homemade specials strapped to my chest.
The bomb sits flat against my breastbone under the vest. No wires hanging out or blinking lights.
It’s a seamless design. No fumbling, second-guessing, or chance that someone can take it and use it against me. If it blows, it will be because I chose to hit the switch.
I don’t plan to use it. That’s the point. But every person who sees me has to believe I will. They need to believe I’m unstable enough to take myself out and everyone within reach, including the two people I’m here to collect. I need them to believe I don’t give a fuck about Jag and Dove.
They can’t see my attachment or smell my devotion. They can’t even suspect it. They need to look at me and see a violent, unhinged mental patient, one that’s scarier than them.
That belief will open doors.
In and out.
Easy peasy.
Finished with my face, I cap the sharpie and toss it toward the front.
Monty’s eyes meet mine over his shoulder, and there’s a whole argument sitting there. But it cuts off as he takes in my smile.
My Glasgow smile.
I didn’t carve it into myself the way the myth goes. No blades or blood. I drew it instead, the heavy black ink dragging from the corners of my mouth toward my ears. A grin too wide to belong to anyone sane.
I’ve only worn it once before.
The last time Denver hurt me.
The night I made the devil’s bargain.
That night, I didn’t have language for what I felt. I had fear and rage and a need to look scarier and stronger than I was. The ink was a way to tell Denver I could still choose how my face told the story.
As Monty studies it now, he seems to understand. This isn’t humor or bravado. It’s me choosing sacrifice over self-preservation, crossing a line I can’t uncross, accepting how the night might end for me, and doing it anyway.
Jag put himself between a predator and the woman we love. Dove is paying for blood she never asked for. If this is the price to pull them out, I won’t hesitate.
It matters. It’s the only thing that matters. Maybe it’s the most important thing I’ll ever do.
Monty stares at my face like he’s memorizing it. Kody glances at him, and they exchange a look I recognize immediately.
Understanding. Not approval or permission. But an acknowledgment that the argument is over. This is happening with or without their help.
Thanks to the sharpie ink, my smile will hold until the end. My hands won’t shake. Whatever’s left of me locks into place, gut-deep and focused.
Jag and Dove have been missing for ten days. That ends tonight.
“Crowe is inside,” Mikhail says into the earpiece. “VIP lounge.”
Oliver checks one last connection and pats my shoulder.
Monty twists in the front seat to face me head-on.
“Don’t.” Kody grunts and grips Monty’s shoulder.
Silence stretches, tight and brittle. Then Monty nods and reaches for me.
I go to him, awkwardly in the confined space, and let him envelop me in a hug.
“Bring them home.” He rests his mouth against my temple. “And don’t you dare touch that kill switch.”
If Jag and Dove are dead, I’ll probably blow up the whole damn building with me inside it. But I won’t tell him that.
Stepping back, I straighten as much as the roof of the van will allow and hold out my arms.
“How’s the fit?” I do a half-turn, side to side.
The black vest sits flat against my chest, balanced so it doesn’t drag or shift when I move. The quick-release is built into the front seam, so I can peel it open with a flick of my finger when it’s time to show them who and what they’re dealing with.
Below it, the gauze-thin ivory skirt hangs to the floor and parts with each step, transparent enough to show the black sequin shorts underneath. My black boots are thigh-high, steel-toed, and heavy, made to kick doors and asses.
Around my neck, I wear a short chain, blackened silver, with a large anarchist circle-A, embedded with crystals. Oliver modified it, replacing one of the crystals with a camera lens.
Rings stack on every finger, the thick bands mismatched and worn.
Enough steel to turn my hands into brass knuckles.
One of them carries a hidden switch on the underside.
Not a button anyone else could use. Just a private decision point built into the metal, waiting for me to flick it with my thumb.
That’s the part Monty hates the most. He said if I wasn’t planning to detonate the bomb, I didn’t need a trigger. I reminded him that this is my circus, and his objections are noted and overruled.
At their silence, I look down at myself, then back up at them.
“Oh.” I grin, feral and proud. “It’s a look.”
No one laughs. No one breathes.
Oliver shifts into my space and adjusts the necklace.
“Camera is on.” Mikhail turns the laptop, showing a close-up angle of Oliver’s necktie.
Everyone in the van will be watching and listening, right there with me every second.
“Look alive, my pretties.” I roll my neck, feel the gear settle against my chest, feel how little room there is for hesitation. “You’re about to find out where myths come from.”
“We’ll be with you the entire time.” Oliver holds out a thin sliver of metal.
Small, lethally sharp, and easy to underestimate, the razor blade was my idea. I take it from him and tuck it where no one thinks to look. Inside my cheek.
When they search me, they won’t find it.
The hard part is remembering not to clench my jaw or grind my molars. Sudden mouth movements would turn it from insurance into damage.
I roll my tongue, locate the cutting edge, and relax my face.
Whatever I am right now—a bomb, a bluff, a wolf, or a drag queen—I don’t look like a terrorist who would walk into a club and end the night if he felt like it.
“Don’t wait up, ladies.” I open the door and hop onto the sidewalk.
The block feels longer than it is. Bass thumps through the pavement, and a line snakes from the entrance of the club, filled with glitter, cologne, too-white teeth, and socialites rehearsing fake versions of themselves.
I cut straight past them.
Someone mutters. Someone laughs. Someone reaches out like they might grab my arm and thinks better of it when they get a good look at me.
The bouncer clocks me two steps out. Big guy. Neck like a fridge. Earpiece coiled against his shaved hairline. He opens his mouth to order me back in line.
“Tell Adrian Crowe that Wolfson Strakh is here.” I dip into an overdone curtsy, all show and no respect. “I’ve come to discuss Jag Rath, our shared problem.”
That stops him cold.
I don’t know which name does it. Jag’s or mine. Or maybe it’s the wide, theatrical smile I flash him like we’re sharing a private joke he’s not in on. His eyes travel over the skirt, the vest, and return to the smile I’m still holding like a googly-eyed crackpot.
He cringes and turns away, murmuring into his earpiece.
I wait.
The line behind me goes quiet, tension rippling as if the crowd realized they’re standing too close to a ticking time bomb. Figuratively, of course. No one can see my explosive device.
The bouncer listens. His jaw jumps. A pause stretches long enough to be interesting. Then he steps aside and jerks his chin toward the door.
Huh. That was anticlimactic. I thought there’d be some lip service, posturing, twerking, maybe a little strip tease, and a trip to the pavement. Guess tonight is full of surprises.
I blow the bouncer a kiss and step inside.
My very first nightclub.
I expect the movie version. Red-rope fantasy, velvet shadows, and bartenders flipping bottles.
None of that is here.
It’s exactly what Crowe would build. Minimalist. Expensive. Black marble and gold accents. Soft lighting designed to flatter and conceal. Music engineered to vibrate bones without distorting thought. The air smells like citrus, smoke, and money.
Before I step out of the entryway, a security guard materializes.
“This way.” His dead tone matches his dead eyes and boring suit.
I follow him past the main bar, past a second bar tucked behind a half-wall, and around the dance floor pulsing with beautiful, sweaty bodies.
We veer toward the back, away from the noise, into corridors where the lighting dims, and past doors that look decorative.
A biometric scanner flashes green without the guard breaking stride.
The VIP lounge waits on the other side, filled with plush seating, muted sound, and one-way glass looking out on the club like it’s an exhibit. The people here aren’t dancing. They’re watching, talking low, and smiling like sharks.
Somewhere below this room, deeper still, Jag and Dove are waiting.
Adrian Crowe knows I’m here. He sits alone in the darkest corner of the lounge, a small pool of shadow carved out just for him. A table. One glass.
Half a dozen men in tailored suits stand guard around him, their arms close to their sides and jackets cut to hide intent, all of them armed.
My pulse races as I start toward him.
Until a straight arm snaps out across my chest, stopping me.
“Need to check you for weapons,” my escort says.
“By all means, frisk me.” Lifting my arms, palms out, I touch my tongue against the blade in my cheek. “Don’t rush.”
He does it quickly and professionally, head to shoulders, down my sides, hands firm and impersonal. He checks my waist, my thighs, my boots. Then his hand hits the vest.
Here we go.
“You need to open this.” His forehead creases.
“You do it, sugar.” I wink.
A flicker of irritation crosses his face, but duty wins. He fingers the seam, finds the release, and pulls.
The vest falls open.
“What the hell is that?” He reaches for his gun.
“A pacemaker.” I flutter my lashes. “Very temperamental.”
Weapons come up all at once, and the lounge starts to empty as security barks orders, and staff ushers out patrons.
My escort casts me a murderous glare.
“Whoopsie?” I widen my eyes an expression that promises nothing good.