Chapter 7
The cold air outside helps calm the heat roiling through my body the second I shove through the Blue Note’s front door.
It had rained while I was inside, turning the sidewalks slick beneath the amber reflections of the streetlamps, but in a few hours, it will turn to ice. Behind me, muffled bass still pulses through the walls of the lounge.
I keep walking.
One block.
Then another.
My pulse still hasn’t come down.
Every place Orien touched burns under my clothes, phantom heat trapped beneath denim and cotton, and humiliation knots in my stomach until I have to fight the urge to lash out.
What the fuck was that?
I drag a hand through my hair and yank out the sparkle clip, shoving it into my pocket.
At a narrow side street, I cut down to where I had parked earlier in the evening.
The surveillance van waits beneath a flickering streetlamp, the anonymous white paint blending into the row of service vehicles lining the curb.
Usually, after a night at the Blue Note, I head home to write up notes and report what I learned.
Tonight, I unlock the van and climb straight into the driver’s seat.
Because Orien pushed me tonight to see how far I’d go, and to ensure I’d leave early enough not to follow him.
The realization settles with ugly certainty as I shove the key into the ignition long enough to bring the electronics online without starting the engine. The glow of the monitors installed across the dashboard bathe the cramped interior in pale blue light.
He believed me.
Or at least he believed enough to act.
Which means somewhere tonight, Raiden Johnston is about to learn what happens when the Blue Note decides someone needs to disappear. And I’m about to see how they operate on a mission so I can get a sense for how they might attack my family.
I pull up the traffic cameras covering Bering Avenue and settle in to wait, focusing on the grainy feed of the Blue Note Lounge.
My family has had them under surveillance for two months now, which comes in handy for my job tonight.
When the side door opens an hour later, I straighten in my seat. Orien slips out first, scanning the alley. Behind him, Kain and Petra follow, both dressed in dark clothes they hadn’t been wearing earlier in the lounge. These outfits are meant for blending in with the night.
My stomach tightens. This is it.
I pull my phone from my pocket and send a quick text.
Lev: Going dark. Will report later.
My brother will understand the message. The family business comes with its own shorthand. I pull the memory card and battery out, toss the phone out the window, shrug out of my cardigan, and trade it for a plain black hoodie before tying back the loose strands of my hair with an elastic band.
On the screen, Orien heads for one vehicle, a beat-up SUV, while Petra and Kain take a second one. I turn on the van’s engine and pull out of the alley, heading to where I know their target will be.
This is the first tip I’ve ever fed them. If it plays out clean, I’m in. If Orien somehow connects this back to the Vartanians, then I’ve handed them what they need to make me disappear the same way Raiden Johnston is about to.
I head north through Ashford Heights, away from the bright main arteries, keeping two blocks ahead of Orien’s SUV. The winter air bites through the van’s thin insulation, raising goose bumps on my forearms.
In my side mirror, the headlights of the first SUV appear at the corner behind me and brake to check the cross street. I ease off the gas, letting the distance stay even. Kain and Petra’s vehicle follows a beat later. All of them smooth, unhurried. People who know what they’re doing.
I slip into the business district ahead of them, passing shuttered storefronts under yawning streetlamps. Here the streets widen, and I tap on the gas, letting Orien’s headlights drift further back in my mirror. Too much distance, and I lose them. Too little, and I’m made.
I pull over a block short of the address and cut the engine, turning off my headlights. From here, the two-story gray office building remains visible, metal gates covering the windows and faded letters spelling Allerton & Co. above the locked glass door. A narrow fire escape climbs the side wall.
In my mirror, Orien’s SUV rolls past, close enough for me to distinguish the outline of his jaw before I drop below the dash. A moment later, Petra and Kain follow.
I straighten enough to peer through the windshield as Orien rolls to a stop half a block farther on, while Kain and Petra park across the street.
Orien slips out first, followed by Kain and Petra, all three moving toward the building.
Orien takes the corner, back to the mouth of the alley, and goes still.
My heart is loud in my ears as they fan out, and I fix every position, timing, and sightline to memory, so I’ll be able to recall it later in my report.
The file on Orien Bellamy described a cold-blooded killer, a man who made problems disappear for his boss. The kind of person who’d walk in the front door with guns blazing, or at the very least, an intimidating show of force. Not this methodical surveillance or patient attention to detail.
With the numerous discrepancies in my dossier on the man, I have to wonder if our surveillance team is shit or if someone doctored the file before passing it along to me.
Kain returns first to give his report. Petra arrives moments later, and the three hold a brief, murmured conversation before Orien gives final instructions.
They separate again, Orien remaining where he is while Kain takes up position across the street and Petra disappears into the darkness behind the building.
I huddle deeper into my hoodie, the cold settling into my bones while Orien studies the building.
His stillness is eerie, the kind of patience that comes from knowing how to wait.
His breath doesn’t cloud in the air as he leans on the brick wall, and only his eyes move, scanning the building, the street, and the surrounding area.
A car passes, headlights sweeping across the darkness before continuing on. No one emerges from the building. No movement at any of the windows.
My toes have gone numb in my thin sneakers by the time Orien shifts position, straightening from his casual lean to pull out his phone. The blue light illuminates his face as he types, then puts it away again.
A text, maybe. To Kain or Petra, or both.
I check the time. Forty-five minutes have passed and not once have I seen evidence of the kind of operation I was briefed on. Why haven’t they entered the building? There’s something happening here I don’t understand, and every passing moment leaves me less certain of what I’m seeing.
My breath fogs as I blow out a frustrated sigh. The temperature has dropped another few degrees, the cold sinking deep into my muscles. I shift position, trying to restore circulation to my legs.
On the street, Orien’s head turns toward my hiding place, his pale eyes seeming to find me in the darkness. I freeze, not daring to breathe as his focus lingers on my van.
A heartbeat passes, then another. My pulse hammers in my throat as I wait for discovery, for whatever comes after.
But Orien only turns away, his attention returning to the building. He lifts his hand in a small gesture, and Kain crosses from his position to join him in the alley.
I let out a quiet breath of relief.
Across the street, headlights sweep across the building as a van turns onto the street from the north. It slows as it approaches the target building, the brakes squealing slightly as it pulls to a stop in front of the entrance.
The passenger door opens before the engine cuts, and a tall figure in a dark coat emerges. He scans the street, then the alley, before approaching the locked front door.
My heart kicks hard. This wasn’t part of the plan.
I need to get closer.
I climb between the seats into the back, where my go-bag is wedged behind the wheel well.
I pull the Glock from it, check the chamber, and tuck it into my belt at the small of my back.
The strap for the microphone goes across my body before I ease the rear door open wide enough to slip through and drop onto the asphalt without a sound.
I wait, watching Orien’s back. He hasn’t moved. When his attention shifts toward the building’s entrance, I dart across the open stretch of sidewalk and duck between two buildings, keeping close to the wall until I can crouch behind a dumpster with a clean sightline to the entrance.
The rusty chain on the service ladder gives way with a single rake of the pick I snap free from the sparkle hair clip in my pocket.
I test the first rung before committing my weight and slowly climb, hand over hand, until I haul myself onto the gravel roof and belly-crawl to the edge.
Moving with care, I open the microphone case and fit the headphones over my ears before pulling out the shotgun mic and easing it over the edge of the building.
With my free hand, I click the recorder on, then aim the mic at the van, adjusting the angle until the feed crackles to life in my ears.
An engine idling, voices too faint to decipher, and the metallic scrape of a cargo door being unlocked.
I flatten myself on the freezing gravel, suppressing a shiver as the winter air seeps through my hoodie, and focus on the scene unfolding below.
The van sits idling in front of the building, exhaust billowing in white clouds from the tailpipe. The passenger has returned to the vehicle after a brief exchange with someone at the door. Now the driver’s door opens, and another man steps out.