Chapter 26 #2
The words land like stones. I look at Rodrigo, whose jaw is tight. I look at Alana, who is still visibly processing the bounty disparity. And I realize that no one is going to fix this. Alana is spiraling. Rodrigo is calculating but has no leverage here. And Tamor has already made his decision.
So:
I negotiate.
“Tamor.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. “You’re a businessman. So let me talk to you like one.”
He raises an eyebrow. It’s the most expression I’ve seen from him.
“You say helping us is a suicide note. But turning us away is worse. Because right now, the three most wanted people in Europe are sitting in your back room. If Marco’s people track us here— and they will track our last known location— what story do you want them to find?
That you were the guy who washed his hands and let us walk?
Because that’s not a story that says Tamor is untouchable.
That’s a story that says Tamor is afraid. ”
The room is quiet. Even Alana has stopped complaining.
“You’re right,” Tamor nods. “So I will keep you until Marco’s men arrive and he can deal with you. Problem solved.”
Alana looks at me as if to say: great job, help me less.
“Problem not solved,” I continue quickly, “You give us the documents, and we disappear. We become someone else’s problem immediately.
Your exposure is five minutes of work that no one has to know about.
But if you keep us and alert Marco, you’ve just sent a very important message to every assassin around about the quality of your business.
About the level or trust and discretion they can expect…
from you. This is about your reputation. ”
I have no idea where this is coming from.
Some deep, hidden room inside my chest that I’ve never had the key to before.
It feels like the negotiation skills I spent years watching other people use at Franklin Luxury Developments, only now the stakes aren’t a high-rise in Lincoln Park. They’re our lives.
Tamor studies me for a long moment. His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes recalibrates. I charge on:
“You see, whether you like it or not, Alana has a reputation for being one of the Twin Ledger’s most valuable actors.
Sure, they’ve started the rumor she killed Mateo.
But will everyone believe that? We’ve started a little rumor of our own— that the Twin Ledger is picking off their best people to avoid competition.
The Twin Ledger is hunting one of their own contractors.
And that doesn’t inspire trust among assassins.
What if the Twin Ledger falls?” I suggest, tracking Tamor’s reaction.
He’s listening. I have his attention. “Marco is the sole survivor. If the Twin Ledger goes down, and you helped them take out their own operative in the club that you own, what does that tell everyone else out in the field?” I lean in as much as I can, straining against the ties that keep me secured to the chair.
“It says that Tamor plays both sides, and he can’t be trusted.
It says your club isn’t safe. Is that really the message you want to send, when you could just give us the papers and no one would be the wiser? ”
There’s a heavy silence as Tamor considers what I’ve told him.
“Five minutes,” he says. “Your documents will be ready in five minutes.”
I exhale.
“But I will tell you this.” He leans forward, and for the first time, his voice carries something heavier than calculation.
“I have been in this business for twenty-two years. I have never seen three bounties this large from the Twin Ledger posted simultaneously. Every contract killer, every freelance operative, every desperate amateur with a gun and a debt— they are all looking for you. Right now. Tonight.” He straightens.
“I will give you your papers. But I do not think you will live long enough to use them.”
He turns and walks toward the door. Pauses. Looks back.
“Five minutes,” he repeats. “Tell no one.” And with that, he disappears.
The silence he leaves behind is enormous. Rodrigo lets out a slow breath beside me. He stares at me, his eyes filled with a warm admiration that makes me want to leap into his arms. “You saved our lives, Billie.”
Alana stares at the door, then slowly turns to look at me.
“Okay,” she says. “Billie, that was, like, really hot.”
I almost laugh. Almost. But my hands are shaking too hard.
* * *
When we exit the club, the night air hits my face like a cold glass of water after a fever, and for a moment, I think we might actually be okay.
We’re standing on a side street behind Pulse, the three of us blinking in the relative darkness like animals released from a lab.
There’s some kind of night festival going on, and makeshift booths have been set up in the street.
Artists sell their wares, flat tables displaying art and pottery.
One of Tamor’s men— a broad, silent type— passes a manila folder to Alana, who opens it and flips through the contents like she’s received forged identity documents before. Which, of course, she has.
“These are good,” she says approvingly, holding one of the passports up to the streetlight. “He even used a great picture of me. I mean every picture of me is great because I’m very photogenic, but still…”
Rodrigo takes his documents and tucks them inside his jacket.
I take mine and stare at the photo— it’s me, but not me.
The photograph is me, but I have a different name and a different country of origin— the United Kingdom— and, presumably, a life that doesn’t involve being hunted across a continent.
I want to crawl inside this passport and become this other woman.
She seems like she has her act together.
“Oh, um, also, like, we left some luggage in the club—” Alana starts to say.
“I put it behind the bar—” Rodrigo adds.
Tamor’s man stares at them. Then, adds helpfully, “Tamor says you cannot come back in the club again. As they say in America, get lost, huh?” With that, he disappears into the club, and I think I hear the door locking behind him. So much for our luggage.
“Good thing I have my best purse on me,” Alana says, hiking her tiny bag over her shoulder.
I stare out at the village square, considering our next move.
The street is narrow and cobblestoned, slick from recent rain.
To our left, the alley leads back toward the main road, where I can hear the sounds of what seems to be some kind of night festival— music, laughter, the clatter of food vendors.
Madrid is in full swing, completely unaware that three glowing criminals are standing in its back alley with a collective bounty that could buy a small island.
“We need to move,” Rodrigo says, putting his hand on the small of my back without thinking.
He’s right. We need to move. I’m afraid, but I know we’re going to be okay. We’re free now, we have our documents, and the night is?—
A bullet hits the wall three inches from my head.
The sound comes a split second later— a sharp crack that bounces off the stone buildings and multiplies.
I don’t process it intellectually. My body processes it first, flinching so hard I nearly fall, and then Rodrigo’s arm is around me, pulling me down, pulling me sideways into the alley as another shot chips the cobblestone where I was standing.
“I don’t even have my best gun!” Alana shouts. “It was in my other bag!” She’s already moving, running toward the main street with a purpose that suggests she has a plan or is simply too selfish to die. We run, following her because there’s nothing else to do.
The festival swallows us like a wave. One moment we’re in a dark alley, and the next we’re plunging into a river of people— crowds packed between temporary stalls selling fried dough and mulled wine and knockoff handbags.
String lights crisscross overhead. A man on a small stage is playing an accordion with rapid intensity.
It should feel safe, all these people, all this warmth and noise and life.
But I can feel the danger behind us like heat from a fire you haven’t turned around to see yet.
“There!” Rodrigo points— two figures pushing through the crowd from the east, moving with purpose, not browsing.
“And there,” I say, because I’ve spotted another one to the west. A woman in a dark jacket, hand inside her coat, eyes scanning.
“Okay, so, like, there’s bounty hunters everywhere,” Alana says, and then she produces a handgun from her purse— and she fires twice over the heads of the crowd.
The shots scatter the nearest cluster of festival-goers, screams erupting, people ducking and running, which creates chaos that works both for and against us. The attackers lose their sightlines. But so do we.
“I really thought Marco would show up himself,” Alana says, almost pouting as she scans the stampeding crowd.
“Like, personally. Is that too much to ask? You two killed his brother and cousin, and I stole his ring. The least he could do is come try to kill us in person. Sending freelancers is so— ugh. It’s like getting broken up with over text.
It’s like he doesn’t think I’m worth it or something?—”