17. Dallas

CHAPTER 17

DALLAS

"Half," Agent Scallini declares, his voice a robust echo bouncing off the empty walls of the Las Vegas field office. "That's what we can muster up on short notice."

"The Bureau is not a bank, Agent Bradley," the second agent, whose name keeps on escaping me, says.

I nod, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack a walnut. Every fiber in me screams that this operation is a bad idea because we can't predict what Solovey will do or if he'll even shows up. But Isaac needs that money as much as he needs to influence the Russian, to persuade him to be there during the money exchange. The Bureau's cash is a lifeline, thin and fraying, but a lifeline nonetheless.

"Are we clear on the timeline here, Bradley?" Cap interjects, his gray-flecked eyebrows furrowing into a stern canopy. "Solovey's making a mess of things."

"Another dead body popped up yesterday—Shtyk's handiwork," Nicole adds from her spot in the corner. "Can't prove it yet."

"People are dropping like damn flies with this Russian in town," Scallini barks out.

"We'll get it done," I reply, feeling attacked by their severe, judging gazes. It's like they can see right through me and through my lies, can see why I really need this money.

"Is Thoreau reliable?" Scallini's buddy asks. "You certain he's not playing us for fools, cooking up his own stew?"

"Isaac's solid," I say, though the certainty rings hollow even to my ears.

A sliver of doubt worms its way through my resolve, but it's Isaac's unspoken words, the silent screams from his tormented past, that cement my faith in him. He's a man of principle. He won't turn on me. Not unless I give him a reason. Or more reasons, to be more exact. Since I've given him plenty before the truth came out.

The room's air is thick with suspicion and I can almost taste the distrust, bitter and acrid on my tongue. But beneath that, there's the unyielding weight of responsibility pressing against my chest, reminding me of the stakes—the lives on the line. Isaac's life included.

"Good," Cap grunts out, breaking the tension like a fist through glass. "Stay sharp, Bradley."

"Always am."

There's no room for hope here, only the relentless march toward an end that promises nothing. And as I step out of the office sometime later, the ghosts of all those lost to the game trail behind me.

The line inches forward at a snail's pace, each tick of the clock above the teller's head a heavy thud in my chest. I'm next, and it feels like stepping up to a void. My stomach churns as the teller —a woman with a practiced smile—calls out, "Window seven. Next, please."

I approach the counter, my voice low when I lean in and speak. "I need a cashier's check for the amount of money I have in my savings."

The teller's fingers dance across the keyboard, oblivious to the dread pressing down on me. I'm about to hand over my life's worth to a man who would sooner spit on my grave than thank me. But something in me pushes me to anyway.

"Would you like to withdraw the full amount of three hundred forty-five thousand and three hundred forty-six dollars?" the woman asks. Her eyes hold mine for a moment too long, probing, questioning.

I nod, a sharp jerk of my chin.

The teller hesitates as if she doesn't want to give me my own earnings, then complies with a clack of keys.

Money is just paper stained green with the dreams and nightmares of those who chase it. Yet today, it's a helping hand—one I'm casting out into treacherous waters, praying it'll reach the man drowning in violence and vengeance where he'd been thrown as a child.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Bradley?" the teller asks, her tone professional, detached.

I watch her hands, steady as they print the check, her routine undisturbed by the chaos it represents.

"That'll be all. Thank you," I manage to say, even as my own hand trembles when I take the check, sliding it into the inner pocket of my jacket like it's nothing more than a grocery receipt.

"Please sign here," she instructs, pointing to the digital pad. I do but the persistent trembling makes my signature dance a bit too much.

The teller rattles off a long thank you, one of those rehearsed gratitudes.

I don't catch half of it, and frankly, I don't care to.

With a vacant nod, I head toward the exit.

The afternoon air hits me, a cold slap to the face, carrying the scent of rain and asphalt.

I reach my car in the lot and slide inside. I sit there for a moment, engine off, the weight of my decision is pulling me down. There's no turning back now.

"Damn you, Isaac," I whisper as I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. "You better be worth it."

The wind is a thief, stealing the breath from my lungs as I step onto the rooftop. Isaac's there, of course—always a ghost among shadows—leaning against the railing, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his gaze fixed on the jagged skyline accentuated by dark clouds. It's like he's trying to unravel the secrets of Vegas, or perhaps he's just admiring the pandemonium from afar.

I've never been able to tell why he likes to stare at this city so much.

"Lots of rain this year," Isaac says all of a sudden, as if his mind saw me before his eyes did. He doesn't turn to face me, just continues to smoke. "Unusual for the desert."

"It's been a strange year in general," I reply, crossing the space of the rooftop separating us. I halt a couple of feet away from him, not daring to get any closer. We are a volatile combination now. Like a bomb with a broken fuse. One wrong move and the entire block will be leveled.

Still, these meet-ups—seemingly random—have become somewhat of a routine. Almost as if the ATF ambush never happened. Almost as if he never found out who I am. Only it did and instead of meeting Hawk, Isaac is meeting Dallas.

"Jeremy knows," Isaac says and I'm confused for a moment, unsure what exactly he means.

"Knows what?"

"Knows who you are."

My gut twists. I'm feeling a panic attack coming on but before I let it take over, Isaac adds without looking at me, "He won't tell anyone."

"Anyone else on your crew?"

"No. Just him. But I'm sure you understand what it means. If he found out, soon others will, and that puts me—puts us—in an uncomfortable situation. We need to do this fast."

There's a pause filled with the scream of the desert wind.

"Got news," I finally say, and the unease in my voice slices through the howls of nature. "The Bureau will front half the cash."

Isaac turns, smoke all around him. He catches my gaze while his own face reveals nothing. "Better than a kick in the teeth," he mutters, flicking ash into the abyss below. "Jeremy and I managed to scrape together half a mil too. Seven's collecting the rest of the debts."

I close the gap between us, each step thudding like a heartbeat on the concrete. His scent is like a punch to my gut, enveloping me completely, invading all my senses, ruining my thoughts.

I can't get the drunk kiss out of my mind. Can't get the feel and the taste of those lips. I should be trying my best to forget it, to remove those memories from my head, cut them out.

My hand dives into my jacket's inner pocket, fingers brushing the paper that's my entire life. I hand Isaac the check, watching as his fingers, steady as a surgeon's, meet mine for a fleeting moment when he accepts my offering. I wonder if he does it on purpose, if he remembers how he kissed Dallas Bradley.

"What's this?" Isaac asks, glancing down.

"Money," I reply, my throat tight. "You're still short, right? If my math is correct."

The check flutters slightly in his grasp, a leaf caught in the wind.

His brown eyes lift to meet mine, searching, probing. "Where'd you get it?"

"It's mine. " I shrug, attempting nonchalance I'm far from feeling. "Was just rotting away in some bank."

Isaac's expression shifts. There's an obvious crack in his armor. "Are you telling me these are your savings?"

"I don't need it."

He thrusts the check back at me. "Can't take it, Dallas. It's your life's blood."

"Look, Isaac," I press, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "There's no time to look for another half mil, is there? You need this now and I don't." What the fuck are you doing, Dallas? My hands, traitors to my resolve, tremble ever so slightly, and I shove them in the pockets of my jacket.

"I can't take it." Isaac's voice is just as shaky as I am.

"Keep it. Pay me back when you can." I realize then that I'm not just gambling with money, but with something far more dangerous—trust. "Consider it a loan."

He stares at the check, his lips parting to object once more. But there's an unspoken understanding in the air, thick as the tension that binds us—a recognition that sometimes, the only way out is straight through the eye of the storm.

"Fine," he finally says and slips the check into the pocket of his slacks, carefully as if it's made of gold.

"Just pay me back once we've got Solovey cornered, once this'll all be over," I say. "This money—it's for a good cause."

"Good cause?" Isaac scoffs, a hollow laugh swallowed by the city's growl below us. "Paying off a botched gun run is hardly noble, Dallas."

"It's not about the guns." I switch to whisper and part of me even hopes he doesn't hear me. "It's your life—that's the cause worth every cent."

We are standing so close. Too close maybe.

For a moment, his facade wavers, emotion bleeding through the fissures. "Why?" he asks.

He knows. The answer hangs between us, unspoken yet as substantial as the fall's chill that bites at our skin.

"You know why," I murmur, gaze locked with his. "No need to spell it out again."

The silence that follows is dense, charged with the stress of an uncertain future. I step back, finally, needing space, air, something that's mine and mine only. Before he consumes me entirely. Before I put my life on the line for him once more.