Riley opened the door, but she didn’t leave immediately.
She went back inside one last time, opened the door to her apartment, and flipped on the light.She went up stairs and pulled her go-bag from the bottom shelf of the supply cabinet.Black canvas, battered, always packed.Change of clothes, toothbrush, spare charger, small med kit, the snub-nosed .38 she’d carried since she was twenty-two, and—tucked in the side pocket like a rotting tooth—an old photo she should’ve burned years ago.
She didn’t know why she still had it.
She pulled it out now, not wanting to look at it and failing, one thumb brushing the faded edge of the image.
Her at nineteen, face bruised black and blue from the last time her father had “taught her manners.”Ronnie Valdez beside her, arm slung around her shoulders, both of them grinning like they’d just won the lottery.Ronnie’s hair was longer then, his smile cocky, that same smile he’d used to talk her into running with his crew.The same smile he’d worn when he’d sold her out to save his own skin, left her holding the bag on a felony she hadn’t even known was coming.
The picture trembled in her hand.
Her stomach rolled hard.
She barely made it to the trash can before she vomited.It was mostly bile, mostly shame, and mostly the memory of handcuffs and courtroom lights and the way Ronnie wouldn’t meet her eyes when they sentenced her.
She spat, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and shoved the photo back into the pocket like it might burn her if she looked at it once more.
Never again.
She zipped the bag, killed the light, and stepped outside.
Dan was waiting, exactly where he’d said he’d be.
***
Dan
Dan sat on the bike across the street from the shop, engine off, one boot planted on the asphalt like an anchor.The night had turned cold enough to see his breath, but he didn’t feel it.He’d spent the last few minutes on the phone with Denver, voice low, bandana pulled down around his neck so he could speak clearly for once.
The call had picked up right where the last one had ended.
“Three assholes are handled,” Denver said, his voice tinny through the burner.“Dry wash off Marana Road.Left ‘em with new zip ties, a gallon of water, and a polite suggestion to keep walking north until they hit Canada.They’ll be too busy pissing themselves to come back anytime soon.”
Dan watched the shop’s windows, lights on inside.“And the feed?”
“Wiped clean.Remote access, clean job.Not some script-kiddie bullshit—someone knew the model, knew the password hash.We’re talking inside knowledge or someone who’s been watching longer than we thought.”
Dan’s free hand tightened on the grip.“Betrayer’s still breathing, then.”
“Looks that way.Prez wants eyes everywhere.You staying on the girl?”
“Yeah.”A pause.“She’s not just some civilian, Denver.She’s got history with this kind of shit.And she’s not scared enough.”
Denver gave a low chuckle.“Sounds like your type.”
“Fuck off.”
“Watch your six, brother.They were hitting her shop and caught serious flack.Means they’ll know she’s connected now.Might decide to try and use her as bait.Or leverage.”
Dan’s jaw clenched.“Copy the wariness and also copy on them using her for bait or leverage.I told you she’s got history with a club or something.I’m not going to put her at risk.I’ll keep her close.On my life.”
He ended the call, pocketed the burner, and stared at the neon sign until it finally blinked off at 10:07.A minute later, Riley stepped out, locking the door behind her with quick, practiced movements.She didn’t look around like she was afraid.She behaved like someone who’d already decided tonight was going to be a problem and had packed accordingly.
She spotted him immediately and pulled up short, arms folding across her chest.“You told me nine-thirty.”
“Traffic.”
“Liar.You’ve been out here more than half an hour.Nice trick, makin’ me come to you.”She tipped her head towards a locked shed.“Give me a minute.”She unlocked the door and rolled it to the side, revealing a matte-black motorcycle parked under the single lightbulb.She brought it out of the shed and left it resting on the kickstand as she went back and locked up.The bike had a lowered frame, raked back handlebars, and a custom paint job that shifted like liquid mercury under the sodium glow of the security lights.“I’ve got my own ride.”