Chapter 2
Two
Adena
The ride through the Quarter is sheer torture.
Jagger is annoyingly competent. Controlled aggression, nothing wasted. He leans into turns with precision, uses his body weight to stabilize us on the slick streets, and anticipates traffic as if he's reading minds.
I keep my grip light on his waist—no way I’m clinging to him like dead weight. I move with the bike because I know how to ride, not because I trust him.
Rain hammers the streets, turning the French Quarter into a wet blur of wrought iron and flickering gas lamps.
We pull up to a narrow building on Dauphine—three stories, crumbling brick, iron balcony sagging under the weight of too many years.
Jagger kills the engine and hops off like he expects gratitude. I rip the helmet off and follow him upstairs.
The apartment sits on the second floor, the door a peeling shade of green that maybe passed for charming back before color television. Jagger unlocks it and strolls in without so much as a “Welcome home, Tiger.”
I follow and take in the hardwood floors—scuffed, but at least not sticky.
A couch sagging so hard in the middle it looks like it's given up on life completely.
Kitchenette to the left with chipped tile, an oven that should probably be in a museum, and a coffeemaker old enough to have seniority over both of us.
One window faces the street. Curtains drawn. A card table and two mismatched chairs sit like they’re on an awkward first date. No photos. No décor. No personality.
Just a couple of boxes, my gear, and the overwhelming feeling that Jagger picked this place using three criteria: cheap, forgettable, and available immediately.
"Cozy," I say flatly. "Really rolled out the red carpet."
He doesn't answer. Just crosses the room in three strides, jerks his thumb toward a door to the left. “Let me show you the bathroom.”
For a second, I wonder why he’s even bothering. It's tiny—barely room for a toilet, sink, and a shower stall that's more rust than porcelain. He yanks the shower curtain aside and cranks the water on full blast. Steam immediately starts to rise, filling the cramped space with heat and noise.
He turns on me, eyes hard. "They’re listening. So before I put my life on the line for this insane idea, we play a round of rapid fire."
“I’m ready.”
"Where'd we meet?"
I cross my arms. "Biloxi. Six years ago. Poker game at the Hard Rock. You were losing badly, and I took pity on you."
"What's my bad habit you always complain about?"
"You leave your boots wherever you take them off. I've tripped over them approximately four thousand times."
"What do I call you?"
I roll my eyes. "Tiger."
"And you call me?"
I manage a smirk. "Ghost. Because you disappear whenever things get real."
His jaw tightens. Good. He pulls a nickname out of thin air, so can I.
Lightning flashes outside, bright enough to spill through the crack under the door. Thunder follows, rolling and low.
He steps closer. The shower roars between us, but I can still hear the edge in his voice. "What's the one thing you'd never forgive me for?"
"Walking away without a word. Again."
His eyes narrow. "What's your specialty?"
"You already know."
"Say it anyway."
"Forgery. Documents. Signatures. Prescriptions. Medical credentials. Whatever needs to look real enough that no one asks questions."
"How'd you get into it?"
"Art school dropout." I don't blink. "Hated the rules. Loved the precision. Started with restorations—antiques, paintings. The client asked me to enhance a certificate. Paid well. Realized I was better at faking things than creating them."
"Who taught you?"
"No one taught me. I taught myself. Late nights, good eyes, steady hands."
He leans in, close enough that I can see the rain still clinging to his jaw. "How many jobs before someone noticed you were that good?"
I show him three fingers. "After that, word spread."
"What kind of people?"
"The kind who don't ask twice."
Another crack of lightning. Closer this time. The lights flicker.
“And why are you here?”
“You have a credibility gap. Marquez's inner circle doesn't trust loners.”
He bobs his head.
“Why else?”
“He's vetting forgery specialists. Every lieutenant in his organization is scrambling to produce someone worthy of the inner circle. Whoever delivers gets promoted. Whoever fails gets forgotten.”
Or worse.
His face tightens.
“Why did you agree to give up your life to do this?”
I swallow. “Personal reasons.”
He shakes his head. “Not good enough. I need to know what motivated you.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Fine. A friend of mine nearly died thanks to drugs that came out of here.”
Friend. Workmate. The only person who knows about my childhood.
His eyebrow hitches. “You want revenge.”
My eyes narrow. “I want justice.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Nice sentiment. But justice isn’t the goal. You cut off the head of the snake and ten grow back. Best we’ll get is a disruption in distribution.”
“Pessimist.”
“Realist.”
I’m not about to argue with him. I’m here because Delilah’s first field op went horribly wrong and she nearly paid for it with her life—not to trade insults with one of the DEA’s maverick undercover agents.
He eyes me and switches gears.
"Ever get caught?"
I frown hard. He’s read my file; he knows already. "Never."
His shoulders drop just a fraction—barely noticeable, but I catch it. Like hearing me say it relieved weight from them.
"Are we done?" I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how small this bathroom is. "If you want to make this look good, take me out to dinner. I’m starving."
He gives me a curious look, head tilting slightly. "You should use tonight to prep."
"I need to eat," I wipe steam off my forearm. The shower's still roaring, filling the air with damp heat that clings to everything.
He glances at his watch. Water beads on the metal band. "We'll stay in here for a few more minutes. Let them think we’re having a reunion."
My stomach tightens.
"I never agreed to being eavesdropped on the whole time," my voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.
Jagger frowns. “Nolan assured me you were thoroughly briefed on how deep this cover needs to be.”
My pulse kicks, just once, hard against my ribs, and I'm not so sure it's because of who I’m meeting tomorrow morning.
“No. He neglected to mention that part.”
I won’t be able to pray if I know someone is listening. It’s bad enough I couldn’t bring my tattered King James with me.
Jagger might be okay with playing the bad guy 24/7, but I am not going to make it without devotion time.
He lets out a low, dismissive chuckle. “Sorry to burst your bubble. Deep cover means just that. No privacy. Even in private.”
While I’m still trying to process what that will mean, he changes the topic.
"You want dinner?" he says, looking me over. "I’ll be back at seven. Wear a nice dress and heels. This is important."
I bite down a retort. Dresses mean no place to hide Mercy, and heels mean I can’t run. "Where are we eating?"
"Somewhere romantic." His jaw tightens on the last word. "But don’t wear lipstick. If I have to kiss you, I don’t want it getting on me.”
He's already out the door before I can respond that I didn’t agree to kissing him either.
Jagger
She wore lipstick.
It’s a subtle shade of dusky rose.
But it’s there.
I'd be more ticked off she ignored me if she didn't look like she was worth every risk I'm taking.
She’s wearing a green dress—sleek, minimal, fitted enough to make half the room forget their own names, me included. Dark waves loose around her bare shoulders, as if practicality had lost the argument.
She opens her hands. “Well?”
“Well, what? Flattery doesn’t work on you.”
The tiniest smirk appears as she pulls the door closed and assesses me. Under her scrutiny, I feel like I'm the one being auditioned.
Her eyes track from my boots—polished, for once—up dark jeans that actually fit, to the black button-down with sleeves rolled to my forearms. My ink is on show, but that’s the point.
She tilts her head. "You’ll do."
"High praise."
We head down the narrow staircase, our steps echoing in the cramped space. Outside, the Quarter pulses—music, voices, the slick gleam of wet pavement reflecting neon.
The Audi waits at the curb. I open her door, then slide behind the wheel and start the engine.
The interior goes quiet, insulated from the street noise.
"We can talk freer in here," I say. "Swept it before I left. RF detector came up clean. But it won’t stay that way for long."
She reaches up and adjusts the passenger mirror, tilting it back. For half a second, I think she's checking her makeup, but then I catch what she's doing—tracking something behind us.
“That catering van hasn’t moved all night. Part of the vetting process?"
Not bad. Most civilians would miss that. Whoever this Silas Hightower is, he trains his people well.
I start the engine and ease into the Quarter traffic. In the rearview, the van pulls out two cars behind us.
"Every move we make tonight goes straight to Marquez."
“What if we need privacy?” she says.
Way ahead of her.
"We get through dinner, we'll make a stop after. Lafayette Cemetery."
“We’ll get through dinner. Stop treating me like a rookie.”
I answer as I navigate the narrow Quarter streets. "You are a rookie. You’ve worked undercover, but not at this level. Tonight, we’re a couple. Tomorrow, you prove you're worth bringing in. Fail the first part, it’s game over. Do not pass go."
She shoots me a loaded look. "I know what I'm here to deliver. I’m prepared."
Confidence is good. Overconfidence gets people killed. I just hope she knows the difference.
I find parking on Royal, two doors down from the restaurant. Rare, but tonight the city's cooperating.