Chapter 20
Twenty
Jagger
Two blocks off Fremont Street, Vegas sheds its glitter like a snake sheds skin.
The building we're looking for sits wedged between a pawn shop with bars thick enough to stop a truck and a bail bonds office that's been shuttered so long the paint is peeling in strips.
No neon. No sign announcing what it is, just an address stenciled in fading gold on smoked glass doors—the kind of gold that was probably impressive twenty years ago and now just looks tired.
This is where money comes to hide.
I pull the door open, and cold air spills out, sharp enough to make my lungs tighten. Inside, everything is concrete and shadows: polished floors that reflect nothing, recessed lighting that makes the whole space feel like we've descended into a bunker even though we're still at street level.
A woman sits behind bulletproof glass so thick I can see the layered edges where the panels meet. She doesn't look up, doesn't need to. The camera mounted above her head is already tracking us, feeding our faces into whatever system decides if we're worth the time.
"Rourke," I say to the glass. "We have an appointment."
She slides a clipboard through the narrow slot without a word. The pen attached to it by a ball chain has been chewed at one end.
I sign. Adena signs beside me, her handwriting smaller than mine, more controlled.
The woman presses a button somewhere under the counter, and a steel door to our left buzzes—harsh, mechanical, the kind of sound that says you're being watched.
The hallway beyond is narrow enough that our shoulders would touch if we walked side by side.
Fluorescent tubes run the length of the ceiling, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional white that erases color, erases warmth, erases anything human.
Our footsteps echo too loud on tile worn smooth by years of people coming here to do business they don't want anyone else knowing about.
At the end of the hall, a guard waits.
He's older—sixty, maybe more—but he stands like military: straight spine, weight balanced, eyes that assess us in the time it takes to blink. The sidearm on his hip isn't for show.
He checks our IDs against a tablet, takes longer than he needs to, then nods once and unlocks another door.
The vault room opens. Ten by ten, if that. Steel walls that swallow sound. A single light overhead—too bright, too white—casting shadows that have nowhere to go. No windows. No vents that I can see, though the air moves.
One metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs. That's it.
The door closes behind us.
The sound is final, like someone just sealed a tomb.
Adena stands in the center of the room, and I watch her do what I just did—scan for cameras, for microphones, for any sign we're not alone.
There's nothing.
We have forty minutes before Valentina arrives at the hotel, expecting to take her shopping.
Forty minutes to say everything we can't say anywhere else.
She doesn't waste a second of it.
“My boss made contact,” she says. “He warned me not to come here.”
“The flyer on our bikes?”
She nods. “The DEA wouldn’t sign off on Hightower providing backup, so Silas sent in two of our people covertly. There’s a fallback spot on Baronne.”
I freeze. The realization hits in waves—shock, then anger, then the twisted edge that was why she sent Lucia there. “Your boss doesn’t trust the DEA?”
“We nearly lost two team members recently. He’s probably just being overprotective.”
If her boss made contact—if she got a covert message—then Nolan is not going to be happy.
“Probably?”
Her shoulders dip a fraction. “Okay. No. He wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. He must have had a reason.”
"But you ignored him?"
A tiny crack runs through her composure. "What else could I do? I had two minutes to make a call. I made it."
Disobeying an order is one thing; watching someone else do it for you is another. Admiration, anger, guilt—they all hit at once. None of them useful.
“We need to find out what the warning is about.”
She nods. "I’ll contact him," she says.
"No."
A slight frown appears between her eyebrows. "I have to go shopping with Valentina. I'll see if I can borrow a phone, make a call—"
"You've already risked enough by coming to Vegas."
Her shoulders square. Her jaw locks. There's something in her eyes—defiance mixed with something softer. Something that looks like she's arguing with herself more than with me.
"I'll make contact with him," I say, preempting her.
Her eyebrows hike. "And say what? Adena's gone rogue?"
"Have you?"
Her lip twitches, but she ignores me. "You can't contact him. You're under just as much scrutiny as I am."
Maybe. Maybe not. But I know where Marquez will want to take Ortega. I’m counting on it.
"Tomorrow night when we go to a club, there's a 7-Eleven nearby with an old payphone outside. It saved my life a few years back. I'll make a call."
She nods. "Tell him my loyalty was being tested, and I didn't have time to make contact before we left. Tell him I'm in Vegas, and I'll reach out when I can."
I glance at the engagement ring on her finger. “You want me to mention things have gotten complicated?”
Her lips press together.
"Alright then. Give me the number to call.”
She rattles off a cell number, which I trace against my thigh with a fingertip—old habit from surveillance training—anchoring it before it can fade.
I pull out my wallet and slide out a few of my credit cards, picking the flashiest one I’ve been given to use as part of my cover.
“Take my Platinum Visa—"
"I have my own.”
I look up at her. "Not while you're shopping with Valentina, you don't. You flash this around and spend when she spends. It signals ownership but shows your primary goal is money."
At the distaste on her face, I unzip the duffel, count out a grand, and leave it on the table for her. "And take this, get it changed into small bills. Make sure she sees you do it. You'll need cash for tipping."
“I do know how to do this, Jagger.”
I nod and swing the safe deposit box open.
“Anything else I need to tell this Silas guy?”
Inside is over a hundred thousand of cartel money. Unmarked. Untraceable.
It would be so easy to…
Adena comes alongside me and pushes the door shut with a clang.
Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something in her words that makes me burn with shame. “Tell him a man’s soul was at stake,” she says.
Adena
The store is closed for the afternoon—a private booking. Two stylists hover in practiced stillness, all smiles and quiet voices, pretending not to notice the security posted near the entrance.
Valentina glides ahead of me, every inch controlled grace. A cream silk blouse catches the light, tailored so precisely it looks painted on. Diamonds flash at her wrist—subtle, expensive, deliberate. Black slacks. Understated heels that echo softly against marble.
I stay half a pace behind her, careful not to crowd her space or fall too far back. She notices everything—where my gaze lingers, how I hold my shoulders, what I don’t react to.
She glances at me over her shoulder, smile soft and deliberate, already expecting the answer. “Do you like shopping?”
“I like efficiency,” I say. “Find something that works and move on.”
“Practical.” Her eyes flick down, assessing. “That’s not always an advantage, mija. Men notice effort, especially when they’re deciding what you’re worth.”
The way she says worth hits a defensive reflex.
“I’ve never had trouble being noticed.”
She smiles just enough to bare her teeth, then stops at a rack of tailored cocktail dresses. Navy. Black. A single deep green that catches the light like water.
“For tonight,” she says, fingers moving over the fabric with the ease of someone who has handled fine things her whole life. “Something elegant. Not loud. You’re representing Jagger now.”
Something tightens between my shoulders.
A sales associate drifts over. Valentina doesn’t look at her, just points. “That one. And that.” Then to me, “You know your size?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Confidence is attractive. Vanity isn’t. Keep that in mind.”
She sinks into a velvet chair, crosses her legs, and gestures toward the dressing room.
The mirrors multiply me. Front. Side. Back. No angle left unexamined.
The first dress—black satin, bias cut—is too short. The second—forest green crepe—is a delicate work of art.
When I step out, Valentina doesn’t move. Her eyes do the work, sweeping slow and thorough, like she’s already decided what she’ll correct.
The way she looks at me hits an old nerve, one I thought I’d buried years ago. My spine reacts before my brain does.
My mother’s voice is low and precise, meant for instruction, not comfort. She stands just out of frame, adjusting the line of my shoulder, smoothing fabric that doesn’t need smoothing. Every correction lands lightly, carefully—too much force would look bad.
“Stand straight,” she says. “You want them to see confidence.”
My throat tightens. I nod. Nodding is easier than arguing, and arguing only makes things last longer. The dress pulls when I breathe too deeply. I learn not to.
Lights glare. Music starts. The stage stretches wide and empty. I can feel my mother watching even when I can’t see her, tracking every movement, every mistake she’ll correct later.
Turn.
I do. Slowly. Exactly the way I was taught. Not too eager. Not defiant. Just enough.
My chest aches with the effort of holding still—of holding right. Approval drifts in, quiet and conditional. I’m not praised.
I’m allowed to continue.
That’s how love works. You do it correctly, or you don’t get it at all.
“Turn,” Valentina says.
My body responds before my pride can object. I rotate, slow and mechanical.
Her nod is almost imperceptible. “Better. The color suits you. Makes you look less… exotic.”
It’s not the first time someone has commented on my complexion. It took me nearly twenty years to accept that mixed heritage means I’ll always be slightly out of place.