Chapter 2
The needle buzzed against skin, steady in Sergei’s grip as he traced a vine across his client’s forearm. He wiped excess ink, crisp black lines emerging. Controlled. Unlike his thoughts.
“Almost done,” he murmured, dipping the needle into black ink.
His client—a regular, arms mapped with Sergei’s work—nodded, staring at the ceiling. Silent. Sergei liked that. Fewer questions about the Belarusian symbols hidden among the parlor’s designs, coded warnings the average person wouldn’t notice.
Cleo watched from a stack of towels, her mismatched eyes—green, blue—tracking the needle’s buzz. Her black tail twitched. Three months ago, she’d slipped through the back door. Now she guarded it.
Under neon glow, the room pulsed pink and blue from Calle Ocho’s signs. Cars honked. A street vendor shouted prices.
Sergei refined the vine’s curve, hands steady. Five years of tattooing had killed the shakes. Five years since Belarus. Since Svetlana’s blood on his hands, her final words—”You promised”—after he’d trusted a society contact. Guilt carved deeper than any needle.
His burner phone sat quiet on the counter. The morning’s call echoed.
“Grove base compromised. Switch to secondary. Crawford, the social worker is digging into Coastal’s records.”
Keisha Crawford.
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.”
Her eyes widened, then hardened. “That’s my job. And it’s confidential.”
“Not confidential enough.” His accent stayed clipped. “Coastal’s a front. They move kids through fake adoptions. They’ve got people in your agency. They know you’re auditing.”
Her jaw tightened. “And you know this how?”
He exhaled, picking his truth. “I worked for them. Not with the kids. I got out.”
“Right.” Her voice dripped disbelief. “I’m supposed to trust some guy who tracks me to a bus stop?”
“You’re in danger.” Urgency sharpened his words. “They’ll send a tracker. Someone good. They won’t bother to stop for a chat.”
She scoffed, but her eyes flicked to the street. “What’s your angle here?”
“No angle.” He stepped closer, catching coffee on her breath. “Those files you pulled on Monday? Three siblings through Coastal? They’re not in Miami anymore. Gone. And bad people know you’re looking.”
Her defiance cracked, just a flicker. “How do you know my files?”
“Oren. Your coworker. He’s theirs.”
Her mouth opened, closed. Calculation in her eyes. Svetlana’s face hit him. Her same stubborn spark, refusing warnings until too late.
“You’re in deep, Keisha.” His voice roughened. “Deeper than you know.”
Her eyes flashed. “Those kids are my job. I don’t need some stranger telling me how to do it.”
“They’re gone.” Guilt twisted his chest. “But you can save others. Drop the audit publicly. Tell Oren you found nothing. Then call this.” He offered a folded paper.
She didn’t take it, arms tight across her chest. “Get away from me. I don’t know your game, but stay out of my cases.”
Her fire mirrored his own, years back. Stubborn. Blind. Doomed.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said, harsher than planned.
“Won’t be my first.” She stepped toward the curb, bus nearing.
He spotted movement across the street, Mikalai’s neck tattoo gleamed. An eight-pointed star. His eyes locked on Keisha, predator-cold.
“We gotta move. Right now.” Sergei edged between her and Mikalai’s sightline.
“I told you to leave.” She checked her phone. Bus minutes away.
“That guy across the street. Neck tattoo.” Sergei kept steady. “He’s here for you.”
Keisha glanced over, wariness flickering, not fear. “Another friend of yours?”
“Not a friend.” His hand hovered near her arm, stopping short. “He’s their tracker.”
Mikalai stood, hand in jacket, phone to ear. Reporting. Military stance. Sergei knew it from his enforcer days.
“He doesn’t follow to talk,” Sergei said, leaning closer. “He makes people vanish.”
Her sneakers scraped, pulling back. “I’ve got a bus to catch.”
Thunder rolled, rain imminent. Air thick with electricity.
“Keisha.” Desperation crept in. “The kids you’re protecting—”
“Are why I’m not listening to some guy who stalked me here.” Her words cut fast. “This could be a setup. You could be with them.”
Smart.
Too smart.
They would try to turn her before killing her.
Mikalai crossed the street, eyes on Keisha. Sergei’s hand twitched toward his knife. Not yet.
“Your files—” he started.
“How do you know about my files?” Her eyes narrowed, a curl falling across her cheek. “Unless you’re with Coastal.”
“I told you. They’ve got people in your agency.”
“And you’re not one?” She shook her head. “I’m close to something, and you’re trying to stop me.”
Thunder cracked, raindrops hitting the bus shelter. Mikalai closed in, diagonal, jacket hiding a glint of metal.
“Your bus is coming.” Sergei spotted headlights. “Mikalai won’t move with people around. Get off in a public place. Not your apartment.”
Her defiance softened, concern breaking through. “How do you know where I live?”
“I don’t.” A lie, necessary. “But they will. Your address, routine, people you care about. That’s their way.”
She searched his face. “Who are you, really?”
The bus hissed, doors opening. Rain fell harder, soaking Sergei’s hair. “Someone who didn’t help when I should’ve.” He offered the paper again. “Secure number. If you change your mind.”
She took it, pocketing it without looking. Not trust, but a crack.
“My brother,” she said, voice low over the rain. “If they know me, could they—”
“Anyone close to you is leverage.” The truth hurt. “Watch who you contact.”
The bus doors waited. Keisha stepped forward, then glanced back. “If you’re playing me, I’ll find out. And you’ll regret it.”
“I’m not.” He held her gaze. “But I’ll regret it if you get hurt.”
She boarded, silhouette fading into the bus’s glow. Doors closed, and it pulled away.
Mikalai was gone. No. Moving. Jogging to a sedan half a block down.
Sergei ran, boots pounding wet pavement. Rain stung his face, jacket heavy. Svetlana’s voice echoed.
You promised.
He couldn’t fail again.
He cut through an alley, lungs burning, emerging where the bus headed north. Its taillights glowed through rain. Mikalai’s sedan trailed, keeping distance.
A taxi approached. Sergei stepped out, arm up. It swerved, horn blaring, but stopped. He dropped into the back, water pooling on vinyl.
“Follow that bus.” He pointed, pulling bills. “Twenty extra to keep up.”
The driver, a middle-aged man with prayer beads on his mirror, glanced back. “Police stuff?”
“Family emergency.” Sergei showed the cash.
The taxi lurched into traffic, three cars behind Mikalai. The tracker stayed professional, not too close. Keisha wouldn’t know she was followed.
Her face stuck with him—defiant chin, wary eyes. Smart to doubt him. But smarts wouldn’t stop Mikalai.
The driver honked, dodging a truck. “Family on that bus?”
Sergei ignored him, eyes on Mikalai’s car. Surprise was his edge.
The bus slowed at a stop. No one exited. Not Keisha’s stop.
“Faster,” Sergei urged.
“Rain’s bad, man,” the driver said.
Mikalai’s car held steady. Patient. Deadly.
Svetlana’s laugh hit Sergei, then her bloodied face.
“You can’t save everyone,” she’d said.
The bus turned onto a residential street, not Keisha’s route. A shopping center. Public setting and open late. Smart.
“This is good,” Sergei said. The taxi stopped half a block from the bus.
Sergei paid, adding extra.
“Be careful out here,” the driver said, pocketing cash.
Sergei stepped into the rain, moving between cars. The shopping center glowed. There was a grocery store, a pharmacy, and a restaurant. Mikalai’s sedan idled across the street, cigarette glowing inside.
The bus doors opened. Passengers spilled out—an older woman, a teen, a worker. Then Keisha, satchel clutched, scanning the lot.
Vigilant.
Mikalai stepped out, jacket hiding metal. Sergei’s hand found his knife, pressed against his leg.
Twenty feet away, Mikalai stiffened, turning. Their eyes met through rain. His cold smile confirmed it—he’d known Sergei was here. Waiting for him to break cover.
“Lisowski,” Mikalai called. “Predictable.”
Sergei stayed silent, measuring distance, risks.
“The social worker?” Mikalai shook his head. “Dmitri said your guilt would make you sloppy.”
Dmitri.
Kryvaya Stal’s Miami boss. Using Keisha as bait.
“Walk away,” Sergei said, voice low. “She’s not in this.”
“She is now.” Mikalai’s eyes gleamed. “Thanks to you.”
Rain pounded, music fading. Sergei’s grip tightened on the knife.
Mikalai stepped back to his car. “Dmitri’s eager for a reunion, Lisowski. Your call how ugly this gets.”
The sedan growled, pulling away. Sergei stood, soaked, chest tight with failure. He’d made Keisha more of a target.
Through the grocery store’s windows, Keisha stood at checkout, shoulders tense, eyes scanning. Safe for now. But not for long.
Dmitri’s reach stretched far. Her office. Maybe her home. She’d rejected Sergei’s help, and he didn’t blame her.
But he’d stay close. Guilt demanded it. So did the spark in her eyes—one he’d protect, even if she fought him every step.