12. Dallas

CHAPTER 12

DALLAS

Strange things have been happening at Purgatory lately.

The spotlight of my intrigue inevitably lands on an unusual newcomer—a young girl, possibly Russian, judging by the accent I overheard—who started working here a few days ago.

She made her first appearance one dusk-soaked evening. Just walked in and headed for the bar as if she knew who to ask. The worn jeans and the T-shirt looked ill-fitted on her thin frame, just like her porcelain doll-like face and huge eyes didn’t seem to belong in this place.

The following evening, however, she upgraded from raggedy civilian to club gear: a standard-issue Purgatory tee and a pair of dark work pants. And then she shadowed Caleb in the back.

It made zero sense.

If anything, waiting tables in the VIP would bring her greater tips, but there was an underlying question that clouded my mind: was she even old enough?

Her duties involved washing dishes and keeping canned goods in storage in neat rows. Sometimes, I’d spot her with a mop, scrubbing floors in the break room.

Each random encounter with this girl would only strengthen my suspicion about her real age.

Of course, I don't have any proof, but that doesn't stop me from digging.

And at times, the digging involves going straight to the source, which I attempt one evening before my shift.

"Hey," I call out as the girl passes me in the hallway, carrying a stack of plates. "How are you?" I try to sound casual. Just a fellow co-worker being curious. Although she seems very quiet, I’ve seen her talking to Marco a few times. "What's your name?" Another weird thing is that she has no name tag and no one introduced her to the team.

The girl doesn’t slow her pace. She simply glances at me over her shoulder and finally asks snappily before rounding the corner, "What’s yours?"

She’s going to be a tough one to crack.

Still, the mystery of her presence at Purgatory gnaws at me. I know that sooner or later, I'll have to find out exactly what's going on with this girl. But for now, I have other matters to attend to, like figuring out who broke into my apartment.

Nothing seems amiss when I return there early morning after my shift. Everything looks just like I left it, but something feels off when I step into the shower.

It’s only when reach for my shampoo bottle, I realize it's turned at a slightly different angle than usual.

My heart tightens in my chest, all my senses are on high alert.

Wrapping a towel around my waist, I pad cautiously to the living room, eyes scanning for any other disturbances.

My laptop catches my attention; the white speck on the letter 'R' key is gone. I glance at a book on the edge of the table, noticing the hair I'd placed across the pages has snapped.

Fuck.

Someone's been here.

Hellhounds?

It has to be.

But who exactly?

Jeremy seems like the most likely culprit. He's made his hatred for me crystal clear. He's always watching me with those crazy, calculating eyes.

The dumb urge to confront him head-on is strong, but I know better than to act impulsively. They've been careful, whoever they are—erased their traces with a surgeon's precision. But no matter how cunning they think they are, I'm one step ahead. They've been nabbed.

Slumped on the worn-out couch still wrapped in my damp towel, I try and piece together the puzzle. The clues connect like constellations and paint a bigger picture in my mind.

Jeremy simply doesn’t trust me because he saw me with his sister, simple sibling protectiveness eating him up inside.

Or Jeremy thinks I’m a cop.

If it’s the latter, then I need to tread lightly and be prepared for a test.

Here, bathed in shadowy hues of the tiny apartment dotted with rusting appliances, the realization hits hard. This game just hitched a ride from risky to fucking lethal for me.

The pulsating red lights of Purgatory throwing flickering shadows across the faces of the club's crowd only boosts my irritation as I escort another wasted douchebag outside.

Several days later, my mind still races with thoughts of the intruder and any potential tie to Jeremy. Another question nags at the back of my consciousness—the young Russian girl. Why is she here? Does it have anything to do with Solovey? Her presence is a mystery, a discordant note in this symphony of violence and deceit.

"Yo, Hawk!" a drunken voice slurs, jolting me from my reverie when I’m back inside to take my spot by the bar. I force a smirk when I see Zephyr—one of our regulars with an alarming affection for yours truly. He reeks of chronic trouble and gives off strong dealer vibes, but thus far I haven’t seen him doing anything fishy. So, I just try to be observant and polite.

"You and me should grab a drink once after you punch out for the day, buddy," Zephyr shouts over the relentless cascade of decibels the DJ is spinning. "I’d love to hear all the war stories." So, somebody told this prick I served.

Fucking great.

I maintain my poker face, giving him a noncommittal nod, my smile stretched thin like the last quarter of moonlight. I can't afford for it to fade entirely—not yet.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, a welcome distraction from the ensuing tug-of-war with Zephyr's offer. My eyes dart to the screen and find an unknown number lighting up against the digital footprint of my fake life—a shadow cast by anonymous hands.

The message is simple:

Roof. 10 minutes.

What in the holy hell?

But momentary confusion gives way to creeping curiosity.

Who is this person?

What do they want with me?

And why the roof?

It could be a trap or just someone from the club, possibly Jeremy—wanting to talk without witnesses. But my hunger for answers and desperate need to collect useful intel overpowers all caution.

I decide to roll with it.

"Hey, man. I need a quick break," I tell Ricky when I find him in the back, playing Fortnite. "Cover for me?"

"Sure thing, Hawk," he replies eagerly, shoving his phone into his pocket.

Charged with adrenaline, I stride toward the bank of service elevators. My finger hovers over the button, the cool metal sending a chill up my spine as I press for the top floor. The tension knots itself tighter inside me with each passing floor that illuminates briefly on the elevator's infamously unpredictable display.

An affectionately familiar ding echoes across polished steel walls before they part to reveal an unnamed hallway. No signs of life here. Even sounds seem unwilling to trespass—all except for a lone door at the end that reads Roof Access .

As if drawn by an invisible force, I direct myself straight toward it, jamming down panic and fear like junk food on cheat day, readying every nerve within my body for any curveball this malevolent city might dare throw my way.

The hot wind bites into my skin, sharpening my senses, as I step outside.

I'm alive and aware as I scan the area, alert to any sign of danger.

But the only answer is the sprawling cityscape of Vegas, wearing twilight as a second skin, all concrete and glimmer.

"Anyone there?" I call out, my voice flying off into the distance, swallowed by the murmur of urban life down below. "I got your text."

Silence greets me, save for the wind that whistles through exposed pipes and humming vents.

My eyes dart around, searching for any hint of movement in the twinkling semi-darkness.

And then I see it—a figure leaning against the parapet, a figure I know well.

Thoreau.

My pulse quickens, but it’s not from fear.

"How did you get my number?" I breathe, my guard dropping for a moment.

The neon sign from the building across the street casts yellow light over the left side of his face. His right side is shrouded in darkness.

"It’s on your job application," Isaac supplies matter-of-factly.

I take a few steps in his direction and the air between us begins to vibrate. I don’t know if it’s in my head or if this anomaly is real and physical. I have no explanation. Only more questions.

"Right," I mutter, feeling an odd mix of annoyance and fascination. "Why am I here?" I close the distance between us with three wide strides.

The shadows around Isaac shift, revealing the hidden side of his face. He’s dressed in all black, the top of the shirt unbuttoned as always, arms crossed on his sculpted chest. Slacks cling to his lean legs, accentuating their length. Shoes polished and shiny.

I realize I’m staring again. Something draws me to him and not in a way it should. I want to study and memorize everything that he has to offer. His expression and its variations. What he wears. And how. The way his voice changes, depending on the topic of the conversation.

"I have a task for you," Isaac says. And when our gazes lock under the Vegas sky, I feel the weight of his words in my bones.

"What kind of task?" I ask, the questions piling up inside me like a house of cards ready to topple.

"Delicate," he explains, his dark eyes never leaving mine. "It requires someone with your... particular set of skills…" He pauses and waits and I’m standing there, rooted to my spot, unable to move. "If you are still looking for opportunities that is," Isaac adds, his voice a whisper.

"Go on," I prompt, intrigued by his cryptic tone but wary of what lies beneath it.

"We need to find something in a storage unit. It might be there, it might not. But we need to know for sure." His authority hangs heavy in the air, tangible and undeniable.

"Find what?" I press, needing specifics so I could figure out what my next step would be. With Thoreau, every single sound that comes out of my mouth can potentially be my last one. And if Jeremy’s whispering shit in his ear, it’s bad.

"An item," Isaac says, evading a direct answer.

"What kind of item? I ask, feeling like this is a game now. Maybe even a test.

"A document. Are you in?"

"Sure." My instincts are screaming at me to be cautious, but danger is part of this job, part of being undercover. I chose it a long time ago—to be in this fight and I keep on throwing myself into the fire. Over and over.

"Good." Isaac nods, the darkness swallowing him once more as he pushes off the parapet and steps away from it and toward me.

We are so close now, I can smell him. Smell that salty ocean breeze.

Isaac reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, folded sticky note. As he hands it to me, our fingers brush against each other, and suddenly, it feels like a bolt of electricity courses through my veins.

I quickly withdraw my hand, trying to shake off the strange sensation.

Unfolding the note, I see a name written in neat, block letters.

Marina Novikova.

"What's this?" I ask, shifting my gaze back to Isaac’s face.

"It’s the name on the document you’ll need to find," he whispers, his voice as soft as a lover's caress but carrying with it a weight that threatens to crush me. "A passport."

The wind picks up around us, its hot tendrils snaking through the night air, burning me to the very marrow. As if these gusts are trying to warn me away from whatever path I've just stumbled upon.

Isaac says nothing else as he turns on his heel to leave, both hands on the pockets of his slacks. And then his sleek silhouette disappears into the shadows of the buildings looming over the roof of Crown Tower.

I watch him go, the burden of the task ahead settling onto my shoulders. I feel as though I've been thrown headfirst into a maelstrom, helpless in the face of forces much larger than myself. And again, it’s my choice. And the thought of Isaac being mixed up with the Russians gnaws at the edges of my consciousness.

I'm standing alone on the rooftop, my thoughts swirling inside my head.

There's no turning back now.

Hawk is in.

And he needs to be ready for whatever comes next.